Eye of She

The eye of she that looks at me,
with lips that never smile.
From her disdain I’m never free,
not even for a while.

The work I do is never right,
I fail to meet her mark.
Her critique sets my endless fight,
To hear one kind remark.

Ideals so far beyond my reach,
of distant goals I dream.
The words that echo poet’s speech,
are cursed by scornful scream.

Yet satire’s bane shall not defeat,
my pen will write my plea,
this critique’s hex will not retreat,
whilst eye of she is me.
 

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.