I’ll sell it to you
if I become famous,
if I can sit idly about while
masterpieces pass from head to page
in effortless debauchery.
You have the connections now,
bored and burning in some distant
consequence, wishing you had more time,
wondering at your own folly.
I hunger for immediate gratification
but fear not the chime of midnight,
meandering as I am through words
and passions, eager to find the
formula you must have missed, when
thoughts parade themselves but refuse completion.
So, surely, I can forfeit myself
for an eternity if I make it big,
and my parable continues beyond
this brain demanding worthiness,
if I know what lies
beneath, what lies I hold
at my fingertips when I want it now,
when my eagerness surpasses sublime creativity
and all I can think of is myself.
I will wait for you here.