Poem: What Interview

What Interview

i wrote something great,

which took me years

to sprinkle on the page. 

 

after a few bouts of hope

i knew i was going to die like this.

my crowning moment

 

would mean nothing, say nothing,

uncopied, unused

by any other mind.

 

should i have volunteered

to help starving children instead?

i sat in a room, day after day,

 

and no one listened,

my success languished,

burning bright in an empty corner,

 

warming no one,

hotter and hotter,

eager for hell.

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