When Words Fail

Having donned,
by the simple act of writing thought,
the gown of a poet
they assail me at every turn,
"Give us some poetry, give us some truth
and merriment."
the clanking of glasses and belching of
indifference mixed with                     dismissive laughter.

"Shall I write of the past?"
I ask,
"Those things which shaped us, like play-doh snakes
pinched and pulled
to create what we recognize as ourselves?.

These are dead relatives and get well cards
locked in cedar chests awaiting the day
when life holds no interest and we can
reopen what has been,
and escape."

"Shall I write of the future,"
I inquire
"Juggling phantom pleasures and would be,won't be,balls of silver?
One may as well put dreams in his coffee
and imagine the ingestion will bring them to fruition."

"I can only write of now,
for now is eternal,
every day,
every moment,
is now."

This does not please the masses
for they desire something,
anything,
to escape the now.

I am a failed poet,
but an honest one.