Mediocre Verse
I wish that I were other than
A writer of paltry prose
And mediocre verse
In hopes of making something
Uniquely mine and mine alone.
I aspire to more than I am able
All the while trying to scale heights
That others have so masterfully conquered
With apparent ease.
It is a humbling pastime
That I do not recommend
For the faint of heart or for
The easily discouraged.
Instead of all these lofty aspirations
I could have been
A butcher, a baker or a candlestick maker.
But I would have chosen
A craft more seaworthy
And less susceptible to taking on water.
Prose was not to my taste.
I lacked the key ingredients
To follow any plot to its end,
Patience, focus and endurance.
And so I became a poet without poems
And a rhymer without rhymes,
Generating a great deal of output
But nothing of any value
To speak of.
And now, I find myself
An unwitting Sisyphus bound to his task
Through no fault of his own
Rolling, forever rolling
Up an endless hill.
My only rewards are
Midnight dreams and near-waking nightmares
That that linger through the days
And do not fade.
A mean and paltry
Yet burdensome reward
For all this effort.