I have a tale I’d like to tell, About a boy I know quite well. He thought the talents that he’d got, Would be noticed, sure as not. His literary Savoire-Faire, Was priceless, But he knew not where. His youth, his flair, his wit and vim, Would surely put the light on him. But though he waited in expectant joy. A man had sprouted from the boy. This man. This, Neon Butterfly, Kept waiting, for his chance to cry... “I’m here. Look at me. For I am great. Come to me and venerate”. He ached for words of quantity, To bolster burgeoned vanity. Alas, but youth slipped away from him, The spotlight slowly turning dim. His seed of inspiration, cast out of reach. One grain of sand upon a beach. An old man now, he looks around. His life spent waiting to be found, Believing that, he was the best, He wasted life upon his quest. So, be warned you slaves of vanity, This could be you, But it is me!
Reason for writing:
I tend to write less close to home, but this poem is an exception.
Birth sign: Gemini
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