Are we just predestined losers
Trying our hardest to succeed:
Deluding ourselves because others
With the correct genes have
Told us that if they can do it
Then why the hell can’t we?
Are our futures set in the torn,
Empty pockets of Grandad’s
Weathered Sunday best?
The stains of beer and gravy
Melding with the bitter stench
Of lost pride and false hope.
Are we to look back on our lives,
Whenever Death glides purposefully
From the shadows to drag us
To our dreamless, eternal sleep, and
Sigh at the doors we pulled when
The glued on signs read “push”?
Is this the fate that is already spun?
Are we the jokes the gods giggle at
When we strive to find that one
Brighter path to stride proudly along,
Only to find the gold that glistens
Is merely bloody stage paint?
So a voice I do not know sends
Consolations and regrets to my
Eager awaiting email account,
Stating that my work is
“Not what they are looking for.”
Does that mean I should sit,
Resigned that I will never be,
Because one voice says no?
Tomorrow it may be joined by
Another with no time to read.
Will that stop me moving forward?
I think you know the answer.
As do I.