Fame

Fame

The story was about a teen boy

Who killed his family to be famous

I write poems to be forgotten

When I tell someone I write poems

Their eyes glaze over in a stare

Who knows what images crackle

Inside their voluminous brains

I feel as if I just exploded before them

It's a comfort that I've planned 

To be so little to most of humanity

Poets recite at inaugurals

To forgetful applause

Unpublished and I'm certain

It's a social death greater than HIV

There are pills for that now

A cure for forgotten poets

Will never be found

Even in rat infested gutters

Where clubbing rats is lauded

Barry G. Wick