Thank You for Your Interest in Our Fellowship
Oh, failure. We meet again here
on the kitchen floor. Its where
I sprawl, generic rejection letter
sitting on my chest like a dead pigeon.
The lightbulb gets screwy then clear,
screwy then clear, screwy then clear
as my eyes leak their stupid parade,
all that wet, misplaced hope.
Aint I the hypocrite? Aint I
always the one pushing pushing
pushing, always telling people
to see the best parts of themselves,
to put it on paper, and send it out,
see what fate has to say about it.
So who else did I expect to see
in the polished brass of rejection,
but my worse self, my weakest,
my most self-pitying, holding up
rejection letters as if they were
road maps that only told me exits,
and never the on ramps, never
how to get where I want to go.