20190213.0430

I hear the words that other poets write,
How they conduct each their own private fight,
And see in them how dingy is the light
The lamp of my own efforts barely casts.
I hear how others delve into their pasts
To put together verse that I hope lasts
Long past when echoes of their voices die;
To say I am not jealous is a lie.
No hope my words will thus reach out have I;
I cast them out as breadcrumbs on the ground,
Hoping that the birds will gather ‘round
And take them in, not leave them where they’re found.
Yet, all too often, the leavings lie there, stale,
My efforts seeming never to avail.