Poetic Justice

Chills,

Thrills, and Spills

My soul is wriggling

beneath it's skin:

"Let me in!  Let me in!"

It's so sad to be Anonymous

and even I, myself, mistaken

I am shaken

to the bone

By Metaphor, Persona, and Tone

I am filled 

beyond my limit

with Symbolism

and Imagery in it

And just today, I've made my choice:

the world will know this poet's voice

So let the critics speak their fear

that yet another poet's here

And gladly starve, and gladly rot

for after death to share the spot

within a textbook, or a journal

or a placemat, or a paper

and though fame is known to taper --

Let me clearly be defined 

with little numbers by my lines

and little footnotes, stand to reason

when my speech is out of season

that professors will interpret

just the lines that they see fit

And happily, I'll face the hunger

both above and deep down under

but from the world, I do command

one single, solitary stand:

That in life, we be acknowledged

for the labor of our poet's hands.

- Dec. 16, 1985, A.D.