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I remain unpublished.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?