After Daniel Morris and his countless rejections
How many times have I scratched the depths
Of my soul, picked away at which superlative,
Which adjective, to convey the paralyzing
Times measured in my life to share?
I gather my terms, put on a showcase,
Step out into the world to give my all-
A slither of hope, an undercurrent of melancholy,
And multitudes of painfully learned lessons.
Over time and time again, rejected.
In the most hurtful way, “Please don’t resend
For we are not amused or enlightened in the
Slightest bit of your personal perdition.”
Do I scrap this heartfelt sonnet into the heap?
Keep it for another pair of eyes, to stir another’s soul?
All the trivial, trite confessions won’t change the world
or reassure those suffering from apprehension.
I toss it back into the notebook, in the fold with the others.
How could they not recognize the ingredients
For a masterpiece? I pick up my pen again,
For one day it’ll reach the audience I seek.
I pull out the tucked-under-the-cover moments,
Those crawl-back-into-the-void moments to give readers
Something to anticipate; it should be so clear.
A brushing back of a loose tendril behind her ear,
inhaling the intoxicating aroma of a loved one
Only to be pushed aside like a pestering rodent.