Ayn Rand Would Really Hate My Guts

It's really a lovely image, isn't it:

The Lone Poetess, writing boldly, in tune 

A world unto herself, a world in her mind.

I am not her.

I can't build worlds for myself;

I find no peace in poetry, no catharsis.

Poetry for the sake of poetry for the sake of what?

Writing was first developed as a means of communication:

The memo, the account, the tabulation,

The voice of a little girl too shy to speak to strangers,

The voice of a big girl who speaks too much.


Thus, on this day

In the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Sixteen

I, Isobel Shaffer, confess:

I want to entertain, be judged,

Start debates, make people laugh.

So, I write

The Poetess for the sake of the impure masses

And I hear generations of poets rolling in their graves-- oops.

But, I'm not writing for them.

I'm writing for you.

This poem is about: 


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