the next story

your poetry stinks,
she says.
it's self serving
and silly at times.
you've lost your way,
your moral compass
is broken,
your heart is too
hard to feel or even
hear a word of
comfort or compassion.
put your pen down
and look at me,
just once, stop
writing and see who
i am. i am not a poem,
but flesh. i am
not the next story,
or the next.