pouring yourself
onto the page
whether in fiction
or prose
is a sentimental
vulnerable thing
when you feel
as if no one
supports your spillage
it makes it
that much more difficult
to give
when the taking
is all you feel

he sits alone
in his car
listening to the bugs
the crickets
hidden in the tall grass
he admired the way
they call out
to one another
as silence
is all that answers
his cries

longing to write
for the masses
but only reaching
a few
feels like death
by a thousand cuts
while the others
around him
are showered with adoration
helped to reach
their potential

maybe the lip service
he has been paid
is just that
the push
doesn’t ever seem
to reach his works
like it does
for the others
the cricket chorus
sings on and on
while he contemplates
the point
of it all