Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

At first, I fail to see failure in my futile tries.
Yes, I am wise enough to leave
judgement to my colleagues,
my mahogany madness pointed out,
my missed rhythms, my frequently
forced philosophy.

And when they discern
holes in my argument, absent
harmony, elusive meaning,
misplaced platitudes, and more
corruption of poetic devices than
I care to recognize, I turn to them

To reply with "Thank you, but NO!
I refuse your critique. And this?
After all the work I do! It is simply the
mystique of the piece which confuses you!"

And then I wad it up, toss it to a
New York curb, let rats devour it
and puke it back out, my vowels and
consonants soon to be
landfill debris.

Because you see?
After I have failed to see, then I see –
and question the very right of me
to mutate language in order to tell a silly story,
present a mundane point of view.

And although a totally unoriginal thought,
this self deprecation, it is vital to my occupation...

If I cannot evaluate my poetic fate,
I shouldn't be holding a pen.
It's true, I'm a flunkie, a failed verse junkie,
And yet I write another one again.