I died as a poet today
For if a poet I ever was
The pen has dried and I quit
And vacant thoughts there sit
You say why--or was it just because?
Hours I worked to create
In the profession of rejection
Each day at the mailbox I would wait
Most of my work was met with no inspection
Sure I could continue to write
And yet incomplete is my fate
I died as a poet today
And it leaves me a broken man
Not filled with any elation
and the words no longer in my head
For having been written are unread
Is not an emotion I can understand
The rest of my thoughts go unsaid
For I died as a poet today
Poetry you see is not for the meek
Only one reader as a poet would one seek
Not one word of response in a week
And I die without a word of critique