Oh, God, I decided to become a writer.

What can I do with my life?

I can write poems,
beautiful to be read
Perhaps, they’ll be noticed
after I am dead.

I can write articles
printed above the fold,
prying into human souls,
until mine has been sold.

I can write reports
for big companies and such,
drool marks on the margins,
will be a nice touch.

I can write songs,
soulful and bold,
strumming a guitar,
then starving in the cold.

Many alluring options
vying for their place,
If I don’t end up a beautician,
it is the work of grace.