MIRROR MIRROR
Am I being pretentious?
Am I putting on airs?
Do my words carry meaningful weight,
Or are they just puffs of steam
From a calliope’s whistle,
Just a fading aftermath
Of something loud?
I wave this flag or that
For the attention that it brings,
Fuelled by a Wilde-like aversion
To not being talked about.
Either scribe, poet or slipshod hack:
The jury is still out.
But it’s nice to be noticed.
I may have a touch of talent,
Driven by light dusting of curiosity.
But I lack in-depth training
In this auto-erotic dalliance with words.
I’m a dilettante,
A lowly foot soldier in a vast army
Trying to scale the walls
Of those who rightfully
Wear the crown.
I look in a mirror and think,
“Am I just an afterthought
That missed its mark?”
And I have doubts.