Dead Poets
He took his leave of this world
with the truth on his lips
while soaking in that warm bath in Paris
where he had flown to pursue a new path
having been forced to publish his poetry himself
because that sort of thing doesn’t rake in the big bucks
For all their smarm and ego stroking
those suave men in designer suits and silk ties
stop caring about you
(they never really did)
when you’re no longer bringing home the bacon to fry
greasing their bottomless pockets
by catering to popular taste even if it's tripe
(as it usually is)
turning their attention to the next big name
when you tire of the game
and let it go to watch the wheels spin like Lennon
Poets aren’t appreciated until after they’re dead
Maybe it’s the romantic mystery of not being able to ask
what they meant by a certain sonnet or a single line
searching for clues in fragmented stories of a life
that no one gave a damn about before they
breathed their last
like mine
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