Wednesday, August 5, 2009
To Write a Poem
Write some poetry, you say.
I really wish it worked that way.
If there was only one heartbeat there
Between my desires and the reality lair,
I would be a millionaire.
I would have closets of clothes, and a house on the moon,
Eat chocolate in bed with a big golden spoon,
Walk around with a stick up my ass, and a feathered hat,
Make sure my servants wiped their feet on the mat.
I would cover the walls in thick purple ink,
And simply replace, rather than wash, that dirty sink.
I would ride in my luxury car around town.
And from up high, look at all the people down.
I would be branded as the very best
When being compared to all the rest.
All would look upon me with awe and respect.
It would become simply a matter of fact.
I would be a well-renowned writer,
Rather than some kind of a losing fighter.
The word "publishing" will no longer have power,
And life will be nothing more than a sweet-scented flower.
But this is far from reality, dear.
And I am not a writer, I fear.
To write a poem is not simple, not simple at all,
And I don't think I'm up to the challenge this Fall.
Look for another, perhaps a stronger nut,
Who will not allow himself to be cut.
I will go on then, I guess, if I must;
I'll admit, it is there, this lust.
Nevermind the cost.
Call me an impostor; I suppose you will.
I will continue, though, to get my thrill.
And die a painful death by the light of the moon.
It comes slow; I know not how soon.