I would like to meet the
Deity that decided that
I would spend my life
As a Sisyphus in
Purgatory, trying to be
Joyce, Kafka, Fitzgerald, Hemingway,
But not even coming close.
Not to mention
Bard, Dante, Vergil.
But no, I will futilely try
Until I die,
To be one of those guys,
And one cannot deny
That while I
Will write until my pen goes dry
And while I will barely get by
And the odds try to defy
That I may be esteemed so high
To be among those gods above the sky.
Why does every line in the last stanza end with the same sound? That sucks. You should diversify the sounds; then you might get above the sky; or get into our esteemed university.
ReplyDeleteNincompoop.