Big Shot
I spent 5 years
submitting
to every petty poetry rag
under the sun
Every online
wank fest you could
imagine
I groveled,
Sucked dick
for mic time,
Read to rooms
with an audience of
two
(Them two people
were other feature poets
waiting to read their shit)
I begged my friends to come
to my shows
I self published
I rotted my
bones with
a desperate
ink.
Then
After a few good years
being published
interviewed
and
getting paid
People
started to hassle me
for poems
And now I have nothing
to fuel me
No poems
No drive
No hunger
Nothing to write about
I’m a father
I’m no longer drinking
myself to death.
Haven’t been put into
a mad house
No black eyes
or a gaunt jaw
No gritted teeth.
Just bad poems
(Like this one)
And the good life.
The trade has been fair
But
I do miss the
way desperation felt
When I was looking for
it from strangers
And not the people
that I love.