I live in words. I live on words.
I am a reader, an editor.
I weigh all your syllables judiciously-
eyes narrowed at the insincerity of your adverbs,
the impossibility of your adjectives.
Knife in hand, I am ready to make you
and your narrative,
I don’t want a writer- those politicians.
I’m not interested in the cheap peddlers of words-
swindlers at the mercy of the crowd.
Keep your cliches, your easy tribute
to the lowest common denominator.
Antony, you changed their minds,
but I read you as I read the crowd that day,
and I was not impressed.
I do not come cheap,
and I have never been easily persuaded.
I’m through with explanations,
sick of defense.
I want a visionary.
I want a reader,
I have been reading you from the beginning.
Can you read me?