When
You can’t tell people
how easy it is,
how hard it is,
and they quote Hemingway
nobody ever quotes his books,
just his comments:
about bleeding.
And because it is easy
and it’s supposed to be hard
when they say wonderful things,
you think it is sympathy.
Because even though it is easy
or maybe because it is,
you think it is pointless,
worthless,
that it doesn’t matter,
as they say,
“it’s only words…”
The nagging question remains:
If I am this good
How come I’m not famous?
I am NOT famous, right?
How would I know?
If the whole world thought I was great,
would I think it was sympathy?
Does anyone, does everyone care
that much to lie to tell me I am great when I’m not?
If I was famous, wouldn’t I be rich?
and of that I am sure I am not.
Am I just one of thousands, maybe millions of old men, who write poetry and people say, “oh, that’s nice.” And then snicker to each other about the silly old man who has spent his life writing down words and thinking he is writing poetry, the fool can’t even spell….
Does it matter? Probably not, but I will be dead soon and I wish I knew, but don’t answer, please don’t answer, if you do, I will think you are feeling sorry for me and I hate pity, unless its self-pity. I like self-pity, its feels like a worn blanket over my bare knees on a cold morning, like the gentle ache of a missing tooth. I do not wish to trade my self-pity for the guilt and doubt of your pity. Thank you

