Poetry Club

I join Poetry Club---
Not really, but let's pretend---

I walk in, and there's pretentious Jackass
Who all the group fawns over.
His art is mediocre, but they all insist he is god's gift to letters.
I show my writing,
And immediately they pounce all over it.
They criticize everything it's done right---
Like the pretentious brown nosers they are--
And like the game I played today,
Of posting in a category---
There is the true artist,
Me,
Lonely, and blowing in the wind.
I'm late to the game.
I'm early for the game.
I do not time my art
Except for the larger picture.
I do not craft my art to be timely.
Rather, I do my art from the sheer joy of doing it.

Some generation will recognize it,
But hopefully it is my own
So I am not one of those unhappy artists who
Never benefited from the Providential Gift of utterance.

As Solomon says,
"There is such a man who labors for wisdom,
"But lo, it goes to another. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,
"That which man labors for under the sun."