Death of a Poet

Awake again at 3 am
Another walk through deserted streets
The time has come for me to face
The facts which I’ve long avoided
Today I must abandon
All efforts to be a poet
My half-hearted attempts
At the assembly of words
Is now a burden
Ripe with second guessing
The architecture involved
With the language I love
Became a twisted wreckage
Oh I know once there was a point
When I exuded cool in the coffeehouse
Of my own mind, sucking down cigarettes,
Dissecting Langston Hughes and Bukowski
And did I really think I could become
A lothario with pen and paper? Sadly, yes,
But those conquests were few and far in between
How I longed to shout
“Look at me, you miserable ignorant twits!
I’m spouting prose which screams genius and depth!
Put down the Nietzche and revel in my brilliance.”
So I kick at some billowing trash
Dig my hands deeper
And wonder what to do
Now that I’ve laid this fad aside
I used to cringe when hearing
The tepid reviews coming in
How could they possibly hope to comprehend
What it was I was saying
Yet now looking back (again)
Everything I ever wrote seems trite
Was it written for me?
For any reader’s enjoyment?
Was it ever art at all…?
It’s a moot point now that I’m retired
I turn in to Mrs. Cho’s Donut Palace
For some rainbow sprinkled solace
But no coffee today
Bad habits should be eliminated in pairs

B.W.Barr (Fall '08)