and a blog called LitHub every damn day,
and I wonder if people will ever write
about the day I was born.
I wanted to be a famous poet so bad,
but I feel like that dream
is slowly dying with each day.
I write all the time
and have put out a prolific amount of books -
my 7th book of poems was just released -
but I live in poverty and obscurity.
Some might say
"At least you're happy"
and I am
and I am a working artist.
But fuck, what I would give
to be written about after I am dead,
after the world has passed me by
to keep me going in reminders for the new.