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Poetry By: Philip Roberts
Literary fiction

The worst bit about being a failed artist (especially if you believe you are a talented one) is that no-one in your family ever supports you. Instead they taunt you, torment you for decades, demanding to know when you will, "Give up this foolishness and get a real job!"

Submitted:Jan 17, 2011    Reads: 46    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

In Melbourne's streets
The unknown writer dies,
Wreathed in all his solecisms;
Melbourne's roads
The unknown writer lies,
Sheathed in all his pleonasms;
Unrepentent to the end of life
A rebel against the ordinary,
Against totalitarianisms.

The unknown writer's death
Has passed without lament,
His words unknown, unseen in print;
The unknown writer's final breath
Has finally been spent,
Like a broken, discarded flint;
His dreams of fame bereft
His work is beneath contempt,
Or so his critics hint.

The unknown writer's art
Was time and money wasted,
According to his own family;
And with each poison dart
His poetry has tasted,
Each sly, unsubtle homily,
The unknown writer's heart
Would slow but surely break,
Until he died in ignominy.

© Copyright 2011
Philip Roberts


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