Famous After I'M Dead

I go online so I can see my sales,
how many books did I move in the night?
These projects that I gave six whole months to,
the stories that give meaning to my life.
But the bar is low, sometimes it’s not there,
nobody much cared what I had to say,
these characters who have lived in my head
are unwanted, most hope they go away.
When I’ve seen people who have half my skill
write a bestseller it makes me see red,
unappreciated in my own time,
perhaps I’ll be famous after I’m dead?

I write a poem that speaks to the heart,
craft the rhyme and flow to move perfectly,
something that requires a lot more work
than those writers who prefer their verse ‘free.’
Put it online so others can partake,
hope what I say might just stick in their minds,
but come next morning my readers are few,
I’m lucky if one comment I can find.
There ain’t much demand for poetic types,
for emotions that are rhythmically said,
but maybe they’ll read it far down the line,
maybe I’ll be famous after I’m dead.

I look at all of these famous writers,
how few of them lived it up while breathing,
Kakfa was nuts, Dickinson was insane,
old Bob Howard was surly and brooding.
Even the ones who found recognition
weren’t exactly living the free and clear,
Tolsoty couldn’t keep his marriage intact,
Hemmingway’s fame couldn’t fight back his fears.
We all dream of setting folks’ minds aflame,
of selling millions and rolling in bread,
but that’s the exception, all we can hope
is to become famous after we’re dead.

It makes a man wonder why he does this,
since there are much easier jobs out there,
is the creative urge worth the effort
when it so impacts our financial cares?
If all of the appreciation that
we can expects comes when we’re in the grave,
is the price of our own satisfaction
worth the hours of working like a slave?
To create something nobody asks for,
ro silence that nagging urge in our heads?
While knowing the best that I can hope for
is to become famous after I’m dead?

Eh, who am I kidding with this. You’ll forget my name before you finish reading this poem.

You have, haven’t you?

Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2022

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