A Writer's Lament

'You are not a writer, '
She softly said.
'For all you've written,
I have read.
And I've come
To this conclusion, son.
You've nothing in
That soddy head

'That holds the least
Part of a thought.
For a writer writes
Things you do not.
So, I'm sorry, kid,
But you're not one.
You lack the skill
And the afterthought.

'Which makes a writer
Great, you see?
And lifts him out
From mediocrity.
Which fires him up
And makes it fun.
But your writing
Stinks abysmally.

'Your metaphors lack
Skill and grace.
And your tensive verbs
Are all out of place.
They do not fit
Where you've set each pun.
And you've simply not
The minute trace

'Of talent, boy.
From what I see
You scribble down words
With such ferocity.
But you're inept.
You bewilder the one
Who reads your
Work introspectively.

'So, in all
Earnestness my friend,
I'll bring my
Tirade To an end,
And I'll steal your pen
And paper, son.
And pray you
Never write again.'