Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary

Staring at the quaint and curious musings typed across my monitor

While I was thinking (ok, napping) suddenly I began tapping,

Inky fingers gently rapping, rapping on my black keyboard

"Tis inspiration," I muttered, "tapping out on my keyboard,

This it is, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December

The promises of a Fine Arts diploma merely ghosts inside my drawer

Eagerly I wished the morrow, when success might come, bought or borrowed

Published works, an end to sorrow, sorrow for my lack of Lore

For my rare and radiant fiction that the public might call "Lore."

And notoriety forevermore.

But the impotent uncertain affection inside each magazine rejection

Killed me- chilled me with frustrated terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the raging of my brain, I stood engaging:

"Yes, some inspiration paging itself out upon my monitor

Some genius insight paging across the blankness of my monitor

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently, the words flowed unabated; and no longer hesitated

"Yes," said I, "works have I created that finally may be bought in stores,

And the fact is, with most writers crapping, crapping out their unskilled bore

That I can scant be unsuccessful." (Here I danced across the floor.)

And submitted genius, nothing more.

Months into the mailbox peering, long I waited, wondering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the lit mags gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was my own secret whisper, "Lore?"

Pathetic whisper, but then from my studio an echo back: "Lore!"

Only this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, but not my typing like before.

"Surely," said I, "sure as hell, something outside my window fell

Let me see, then, might as well, and this mystery explore,

Let my angst be still a moment, and so this mystery explore.

Tis the wind, I bet, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the sash, when, almost knocking me upon my ass

In there flapped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.

Right past my frame the birdy edged in, like some battered mythic pigeon;

And like an old curmudgeon perched above my Pentium 4.

Perched upon my printer, just above my Pentium 4.

Perched and sat and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy beak be broke and staved in, thou," I said, "are surely cravin'

Seeds or something, crazy raven, wandering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what then is the dilly on the Night's Plutonian shore."

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I "what it utters is its only repertoire,

And surely despite how it is seeming, there can be no meaty meaning,

Just coincidental vocal preening, to hear himself echoed more and more-

To satisfy his corvin ego and hear his own voice more and more

Stupid bird says Nevermore."

But the raven, bird-duties shirking continued perching, staring, smirking

So I wheeled my desk chair over in front of crow and desk and '4;

Then, upon the lint there sinking, I betook myself to linking

Delusion to delusion thinking what this mangy bird of yore

What this glossy, ungainly, gaunt and mangy bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat and started guessing, all my insecurities expressing

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my writer's core;

"Were you sent in stead of mail or call, with news from some periodical

one publisher, or maybe all, to which I've sent attempts at lore?

Gloating brownstone towers to whom I've sent attempts at lore?"

The crow answered not, no, nevermore.

Then, methought, the air grew thicker, and, though perfumed, I felt sicker

As though the Devil in some corner had pissed upon my floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "are you now saying that writing has no way of paying,

and until my head be old and graying I will never see my works be lore?

See, O see my soul is graying, can't you make my works be lore?"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil,

Whether Hades-sent or Houghton Mifflin tossed thee to my shore,

Desolate, yet I am undaunted, in this studio enchanted

By my own thoughts you find me haunted- tell me truly, I implore:

Will I- shit, will anyone read it- tell me, tell me I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Crow fucker," cried I, "thing of evil, before on your ass I get medieval,

By my shit-stain liberal arts diploma- by the God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow lade, if, no books or screenplays made,

I might at least find aid, by forgetting I ever wanted to write lore-

Make me forget my GPA and that I ever yearned to join the world of lore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"By that word you can't stop shrieking, you fucking bird!" I yelled, out-freaking-

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's pretentious shore!

Leave no black plume or runny mess! Critic! Editor! Elitest!

Give my soul much needed rest and leave me, literary whore!

Stop shitting on my soul's own work and go back to those PopLit whores!"

Quoth that fucker, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the copy/scanner/printer just above my Pentium 4;

And his eyes have all the glowing of a demon's that is knowing

That all this frustrated soul outpouring is just shadows on the floor.

Whatever talent is, is just a useless shadow on the floor,

And shall be published...

NEVERMORE!