A Poet’s Memoir

Nine years old
I wrote something
Teachers liked it
I got noticed
I was doomed
I instantly knew it
I kept at it
Was picked on for it
Was applauded for it
But soon it became
Its own reward
It was how I breathed
That was enough

I found my doom
Another voice
And offstage sustenance
Onstage became pure and creamy junk

Still doomed

Someone loved me
Someone real loved me
Someone real paid me a bag of pennies

Now middle aged
Still doomed to this
Still amazed at how often it’s enough
Though too often because
I have to eat
I have to lay my head somewhere
I have to be warm and able to breathe
I have to have an arm around me as I sleep
I have to set it aside

I kept going
Long after I should have
Should have stopped
Should have kicked the junk
Should have died and taken
The acclaim accorded to a dead artist
But
I am what I am
Not happy exactly
Wholeness isn’t always nirvana
But doing something else and
Being something else
Aren’t my doom
And doomed
is who I am
Is why you are reading this
Piece of apparently necessary
Crap