Edit This, Bitch.

Before you send praise, doubt, and even credit,
Please keep in mind that I refuse to edit.

I'll drag and drain, complain, and brag "Yeah I said it"
But I'll never erase or re-type, I must reiterate, "I will never edit"

I'd rather be a creditor than and editor, I'd choose infection over correction,
I'll take my typos, chicken-scratch and questioned lines,
Take your opinion, complaints and whines.

No matter how bad, my gramMer or Prose,
Something bores me about backtracking what flows.

Some writers want fame, perfection, or a "mastered craft",
It's all just a crutch, lame, like arm-floaties and such, just use a raft,
Because all they completed was a pure thought deleted,
Readers could have reminisced and some may have laughed,
If they weren't safely guided to shore by the Math.

Subtracting taboo, hoping to multiply an audience by refusal of division,
Congrats on the neutered and snipped, and the overly-respected "revision"

Sometimes I make a point, others I set a mark,
Sometime I jot just to be stark.

So how do I explain my shame to a reader?
Why I'll never find fame or be seen as a leader?
 I don't, because planners are plotters, and in my book, a plotters a cheater.