I’m not as bad as I think I am, and
I’m not as good as I want to be.
I don’t think you’re that good either,
Though people love you
Even as you scorn them,
Revere your sickness
And you secretly don’t believe
And I keep coming back
To your poetry
Wondering what all the fuss is about,
Wanting to appreciate the magic
I think I’m missing,
And see sleight of hand instead.
Shaking my head, I put the book down
And I say to myself that
A drunk 10 year- old could have written that,
And I feel jealous of this 10 year-old.
Your words don’t touch me, old man.
I can appreciate your naked cynicism,
I’m a cynic too,
But I get hate for being one and
You get accolades for it.
I’ll keep going my own way
Hoping maybe something will turn over.
And I guess, if I’m being honest, believe
We will meet in a bad dream one night
And have it out.