Poetry and Porcelain

In the still, in the dark, each morning I practice my art. While I try to go deep, the daily mundane I achieve approaches the inane. And if fame is what I seek to gain I would do better to find reality in another venue, than continue this insanity, so like trying to rub through a sink's porcelain with a finger nail. And yet, in my sink is a darkened area, made so by years of running water. Proof, perhaps, that we can go beyond the pedestrian.