In the spirit of All Hallow's Eve, here's a tongue-in-cheek poem.
We are hungry,
licking our chops,
We wonder if they’ve paid their dues,
climbed over corpses,
kicking aside what no longer serves,
gorging on the deceased.
It’s a bloody affair.
We wipe the mess from our mouths
with our shirt sleeves.
You’ve gotta feed the fire of creation
with the rotting withered writers,
the eliminated ones.
Hush now, stay quiet.
I’ll inflict my poetry on you.
Clamp hands over ears,
it’s too late.
I’ll shove you off the cliff,
drown you at the bottom of the lake,
but you’ll be there in the acknowledgements,
couldn’t have done it without you.