Artist with a typewriter. Author with a paintbrush. ;; Palindrome Poem

This’ll have to do for now.

Rethink your life, my love.

I smear my words on a page and consider it art. Why do you love it?

Please, let me do this over again—

My love, We’ve never been able to do this right.

You say, writers are as delicate as their words.

I’m not writing as much, I don’t want to be compared to letters.

I’ve messed up, let me do this again—

My love, We’ve never been able to do this right.

You say, writers never make mistakes.

I confronted you, the publishers, the public, the people.

A mistake was made, once more, please?—

My love, We’ve never been able to do this right.

You say, writers do nothing wrong, ever.

Writers are perfect? I should never be one.

Once more, sweetheart, I’m sure I’ll do it right—

My love, We’ve never been able to do this right.

You say, mistakes aren’t natural, and artists are liars.

I’ve stopped writing, I’m an artist, now.

Let me fix that—

My love, We’ve never been able to do this right.

You say, authors do no harm. No bad.

Does that mean I didn’t do all those things to you?

One last time, I think I’ve got it—

My love, We’ve almost been able to do this right.

You say, I’ve changed

Art has died and has taken writing with it.

My theory is this.

(Somewhat inspired by Richard Siken's works.)