Austen Roye

Hooked

I've sent awful letters to publishers.
The magazines don't want anything to do
with someone the likes of myself.
"We just don't have time for you or anyone
else," they say.
"The volume of submissions we receive every
month keeps us busy enough, leaving us to recycle
some of the greatest work we've ever read."
And I start to question myself, my own ability and
drive and so on,
but mostly, I start to question them.
They lie to keep you on your toes,
they give you hopes they never allow you
to fulfill, under any circumstances.
They dangle it above you, just out of reach
while you sit over toast and eggs.
They wrap you in it as you climb into bed.
They keep it on the end of your tongue,
in the holiest and most maniacal of places -
they keep it in your kitchen sink and
on the highest shelves at the grocery store.
Years pass and they slip it into your arthritis
medication, they stir it into your drinking water.
It seeps into your pores and out into your
clothing, your socks and shoes,
into the handle of your cane.
They cut it into fine lines and slip it
into the mouth of your pipe.
You feel it come on slowly - build gradually
and set your lungs ablaze.
You breathe smoke.
You breathe it 'til you can't breathe at all.
Then they carve it into your headstone.
They toss it in with you and
bury the whole package
and no one seems to notice
how crowded that coffin
really is.