overtime…

they kill poets, don’t they

finding out you might be a poet
is bit disconcerting.
certainly there’s some fear,
and if you’re normal enough,
probably the hope
that you might do something
more useful for the world.

since you’ll never know for sure,
you can either keep writing
or quit.
quitting isn’t really a solution,
unless you enjoy being
eaten from the inside-out
by a poem of your own making.

after a while you won’t even
notice the difference;
the words will keep coming
one way or another.
when all your friends start looking
at you differently,
as if you had a dick
hanging off your chin,
it will be a mark of honor
rather than a stigma.

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2 Responses to “overtime…”

  1. Interesting symbolization you convey, but I have to agree with your words.

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