I was fine gathering dust on the shelf,
But the day that I posted
My first poem online,
I messed up and I “outed” myself.
I’m not what you’d call a great thinker,
My profundity’s barely skin deep.
I’d love to be one of those
Who paints pictures with prose
And writes books folks would buy, read, and keep.
But it’s too hard to flesh out a plot-line
And keep it moving from cover to cover.
First you push, shove, and fold it,
And polish, and mold it,
Then throw it all out and start over.
Writing verse is a less stressful pleasure,
Mine’s often witty and gay.
Is each poem I write a rare treasure?
Will I gain wealth and fame beyond measure?
No, it’s not,
And I won’t,
And I know it.
Some things are not done for the pay.
But now I’m a bona fide published poet,
I may end up in a book anyway.
Of course, I know nobody needs them,
Some of my verses are fluff,
But if now and then somebody reads them,
That will be glory enough.