Rejections

Disgruntled, he's staring at the stack of rejection letters,
Piled higher and higher, like the bills that he can't pay.
He checks his email, but it's the same old story,
Rejection after rejection, every single day.

"We don't publish poems about one night stands,
"Our readers don't glorify the evils of drinking,"
"Nobody wants to read about life's ugly side,"
And then there's the classic,
"Your poetry is poorly written."

He's thinking about giving up - what's the point anyway?
Why not find a new hobby, a new way to pass the time?
But he simply can't, doesn't know the first thing about quitting,
So he uncorks a bottle of wine and takes a hefty swig of the divine.

He lights up a cigarette and cranks up the radio,
Mozart's playing, on some other planet perhaps.
He sits down pen in hand, a blank page awaiting,
And starts writing with a passion that can only be classified as exempt.

For he writes for himself, his poetical medicine,
It's the only therapy he's ever really needed.
But deep down, he wants more - recognition, fame, acceptance,
He wants his soul to be freed.

He writes about the darkness, the light and everything in between,
He's pouring his heart and soul on paper for anyone to read.
Hoping that someday, someone, somewhere will finally hear,
His words will touch someone's heart, and become the seed.

The seed of a change, or the spark of a revolution,
Maybe his words will inspire a generation to come.
He may never win a Pulitzer or a Nobel,
But maybe, just maybe, his words will resonate with some.

Maybe that's all a god damned pipe dream.

Disgruntled he may be, but deep down he knows the truth,
Poetry is his life, his breath, his existence.
And though he may face countless rejections and failures,
He will keep writing, until he has found his persistence.