Deception

Who am I trying to deceive

With these poetic aspirations

With lofty sights set on notions

Of beauty, eloquence or talent?

These pieces are, In fact, mere expositions,

Dry documentaries composed of stolen styles,

Vocabularies of lofty pretension

And saccharine sentiment.

My head should hang in shame,

My efforts driven from the realm of art

And reduced to that of mere rhyming,

Of iambs and trochees, couplets and verse

Of little worth or notice.

I am my worst and most strident critic

As it should be, for who is better to judge

The worthiness or value of these words?

I shudder to think of the bloody crucifixion

This effort would receive at the hands

Of those schooled in literary craft.

I would be drawn, quartered,

Left hanging from a gibbet,

Eviscerated for the crime of hubris.

My efforts pale beside the works

Of masters and novices alike.

Save a love for the language

And a willingness to innovate,

To search for different ways to express

The vision that drives me,

I have no qualifications

To justify this effort.

I remain unpublished.

No letters appended to my name.

No parchment mounted on the wall.

I am the rankest of amateurs in a field

Rife with contenders for the Maudlin Crown

And the obscurity it bestows.

Crying out for an audience

That has little patience for such nonsense,

Why do I dare?

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