a poet at an author’s convention

the eager onlookers
carefully perusing tables
chatting with the
boisterous authors
happily shilling their wares
flashy banners
bold covers bespectacled
with blood and monsters
a palpable excitement
between fans and writers

i see the looks
as they read the sign
cookies and poetry
how the excitement fades
gradeschool lessons
the terrors of being
forced to scribble verse
meaningless metaphors
and insipid word choice
as i stand smiling
as they explain why
they don’t enjoy
my passionate pursuit

being bound to
a dead art is much
the same as living life
in a bipolar stupor
as loving from afar
tapping out lines
and telling tales in
one hundred or so words
never satisfied fully
tearing at flesh
to unlock the hidden majesty
no one else can see
the irony of having a
useless talent
playing a dulcimer
while everyone else
strums an electric guitar

it was all too much
the constant chattering
i refused to push
my books instead choosing
to point out the others
with books more on par
rather than try to
convince someone that my
bleeding is beauty
each scab carefully placed
upon the page an attack
on silent suffering
each line excised
to allow the cancer to
blossom beneath the
artificial light of heaven

my name is on the shirt
even if my presence was
rather lacking for the
superfluous nature of
poetry for fans of the
undead shamblers and
extreme horror grotesqueries
a sign i was there
passing out cookies
and wondering why
i didn’t just stay home
smiling as people explain
why they hate my
chosen form of destruction

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