poem

 Chiliad 

Once I get to 1000 poems

I can finally call myself a failed poet

Anything less you can always say

You were only fucking around,

Letting off steam, exploring new hobbies,

An enthusiastic amateur indulging 

In a harmless avocation.

It was never serious! 

You never meant anything by it.

But once you get past 1000 the mask comes off.

All the truth leaks out 

You’re in the cult

A faithful adherent to the creed

Everyone whispers in the adolescence of night 

When truth is the only light 

But once you cross that threshold

You put yourself out there

And now you can be judged,

Laughed at, or worse, ignored.

Another addition to the trash heap of forgettable failures 

Who recognized the song

But didn’t know the words.

Who knew what she wanted 

But forgot to bring it.

Who had the world 

At his fingertips

But bartered it for a view

From the dark side of the moon. 

No, you’re not the secret literary sensation 

Too humble to know if it was any good 

Until the day a famous literary agent 

Stumbled across your website 

And immediately saw how nothing 

Would ever be the same again.

No, not that sort of person at all

Not him. 

You were merely another who tried

And failed 

Tried and failed.

Once I get to 999 I’ll probably quit

And retire a layman

Spare myself the public exam.

I’m pretty sure I know what I am

I just don’t want to have to admit it.

12/11/24