I was told I didn’t make sense in my writing
In a mission which had projects that weren’t fit for the task.
Projects that were all over the place and showed trivial strengths
But I was to punch above the weight of this maddening bison
And write “technical” non-verbosity that sounded elegant
When the company was banking on millions in their greatness
Weren’t so great if you meant bright marketing and dressing up
Of mediocrity in their data and technological “breakthroughs”
With a kind of lacklustre speaking, seeing or knowing.
I didn’t want to think twice or thrice
Out came my art of writing in a piece of work that made little sense
To a person known as “C” like “C” knew everything about the world when in truth
“C” knew nothing at all about the work and me.
Yet “C” took all the words I wrote which “C” deemed little sense to go for a spin
And spun entire new meanings for it.
Making words sound lesser than any sense I’ve written
All the while describing my text as frustrating to read.
That words must sound in its image a cognitive “correctification” all the time
To words only subjective, perceptive and dependent on who, when or how so one thinks.
This became an anxiety that made me think what the hell was wrong with me
If I couldn’t write the way in the doneness of being correct to the T
And typing “like everyone else does or should be”.
C’s comparison of my work to boring writers in their “well-doneness”
Lands the finishing stake to the heart and the body is not the same.
So I strayed far from writing for a while.
It made me think, that not making sense in writing
Might be the world’s wrongest sin,
An injurious insult to art and science.
- Vania (Vander)