Ambition.
Aspiration.
Hopes and
dreams for life.
In all of these things
there is one thing I
have it not in me
to be.

I'll never be a poet.

Ironic, I agree.
But I have not the mind
of the so-called,
"great" ones.
Physical
disease
blinded their minds
Making way for
spiritual
infection
in their hearts.
They saw demons
around every corner of
their frailty.

How terrible could it
have been?
So much that you could not
let go?

Butwhile the jackals and critics
devour
your continuous deaths
I hope I can give you
this one solace:
you can't take it with you.
It's gone-
it's ours now.
You created your own mourning.

But while I've given up
that greatness
I'll be around for
eternity
to make up for it.