Dungeons

Can you imagine being confined

In a dungeon dark and deep,

With only what is in your mind

And cold concrete on which to sleep?

            Truly, me neither!

So why such a poem to start

For justice I could never do?

Man, the critics would pick apart

And all they’d say would be true.

For in a dungeon I’ve not been

Nor have I felt the fear and cold;

No, such hardships I’ve not seen,

So I’ve no right it’s been told.

From the critics, I have heard their scorn,

And at my rhymes let them rage,

But here in bed on a Sunday morn;

Do they know the fear of an empty page?