You the writer who will not be known
Your words for sale
So is your soul
You write not for love or passion
Your heart does not feel the poets pull
Simple cash transaction
Ghost writer you fool
For what is the value of literature
If not as A shining portal to truth
But money clouds the purity
And contaminates the youth
Brag about how well your corporate book sells.
A monkeys work would sell just as well.
People are trusting the cover
But the doctor was out to play
Taking medical advice from a writer who gets paid by the day.
You have no ethical compass
You think it’s a joke anyway
So people will spend their money
Never knowing of the deceit.
How many experts have tricked us
In this way?
They affix their fancy titles
Doctor, lawyer, successful intellectual
You trust the title
And they use this to make money.
The knowledge Is worthless
Not even true most days
But if the title say doctor than it must be true
Betrayer of artists
You are a shill