Poem: CRITIC

Offbeat ideas enliven me,
People listen, I am inspired,
I am the cooled out kind of guy,
Yet my pen is strong,
Years ago I sowed some coins,
Expecting to reap currency notes,
A search for a huge amount.
Vain, all vain. Plundered!
Why, sub prime mortgage?
Way down i cried,
A strange realisation it was.
Never am I a millionaire!
Depression. Or was it recession?
Now I crave a Nobel, ya Nobel!
You walk along to stumble,
You dash against a writer,
Everywhere, Writers abound, but writing?
Good poems, good stories.
What is good/ God alone knows!
Yet nothing is easier.
I am a writer. Eminent?
No, alas, no.
I wrote and wrote for a Nobel.
Nothing in black and white.
The Editor appreciates my writing.
But he regrets. for what?
For not being able to use it!
I took a swipe at authors-
The award winning ones.
Snooty comments ravaged them.
a lot of phoocy I discovered.
The mud-sling game. recognition.
I became a critic. Of what?
Of share market, of Bull,
Of Bear, of Woolf.