People think it is easy to sit all day and write,
but what do they know of working and not making any money?
They would think it absurd, an absurd comedy out of a play. Waiting for a book deal.
Waiting for a reply to a magazine.
Waiting for rejection letters.
Waiting for no one.
Years of this. No partner would accept this kind of relationship. I hate
myself. I hate those
so-called poets
who get book deals.
Why do I suck?
Why must I collect
rejection letters. My
poems tell no one’s
story but mine.
I am so poor, I am so
hungry. At least I have
my music
record player
books
typewriter.
I will be dead one day
and everyone
will finally know
I was a poet.
Not that I even care what
society thinks about me
thunderstorms ache.
trees cry
sidewalks shake.
I write poems to make…
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