They will write off my honest attempts at being honest as drivel, the lowest denominator, an elaborate hoax of the common mind.
They will mock my manuscripts,
and pass them around at velvet parties and put out their cigars onto them, and scoff at their inconsistencies, their remarkable lack of clarity, or wit.
They will mock my fantasies,
which I will not be able to separate from myself, and they will see right through me and the lying crowd will write me off as a poet, and the poets will write me off as a deliberate fame hound.
They will mock my work by each individual word.
The first word will be far too overused, the next too foreign to reach across the arid room to grab firm hold of my readers,
who also mock my work.
They will mock my work with their wads of bills.
They will mock my work by scrawling over-descriptive cesspools of their minds on the wall.
They will mock my work by insisting on imitation.
They will mock me even when I know, I know that I am being honest.
They live in plastic tollbooths on the success superhighway.
And I will contend with them, I will pout, and I will shout
"Only the questionable ones never question themselves!"
Then surely they will know I mean well.
And then I will carry onwards, mocking myself all the way.
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