Circle Heretic I walked with dim tread into The circle And I saw them all there Lined up in neat rows in pairs Browning in black cowering under a ceiling fan Whitman masturbating by the fireplace Ginsberg staring out the window Pound sitting playing marbles Wordsworth plucking a dreaming fern Wilde talking and talking and no one listening Tennyson so cavalier and so buttoned down in grey Yeats clawing at a wall Swift chewing on infantile bowl of meatballs Coleridge floating and dancing Baraka stern and Keats plowing and Byron kneeling and Shelley dreaming Conversation dead and equal I walked with dim tread into The circle And all eyes fell on me And in one voice I heard, "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Reason for writing:
This all about my own feelings of inadequacies, as if by writing and trying to garner notice and criticism that I was treading paths that I didn't belong on, that the great ol' masters would come to me and say, "who the hell do you think you are?" I still haven't completely dispelled these feelings.
Birth sign: Cancer
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