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.