Babbage

There are days I all but balk

At the way the feed turns my words to chalk

Lost to the wayward whims of algorithm babbage

As if they were nothing but stinking cabbage

Washed and gone, pray tell:

Will my work ever make it off the carousel?

If you reading sense my consternation,

In the sky of my mind there hangs a constellation

Language painted to free me of the humdrum

Non-exposure from our writers’ online conundrum.

—

@bykaileyann