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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Existential poem I wrote in 1979 bemoaning the fact that in six years of writing I had not had a single poem published. I would finally get my 1st two poetry publications in a U.S. Science-Fiction magazine in early 1989!

Submitted: January 27, 2011

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Submitted: January 27, 2011



Life for me
Is merely pretense,
It never seems
To make much sense.

Joy of living
Is known by others,
But somehow in life
I always suffer.

I'm told that love
Can bring great joy,
Yet to my women
I'm but a toy.

They use me as
Other men use them,
Paying me back
For their other men.

Life must surely be
A wondrous thing,
For the very few that
Love doesn't sting.

Oscar Wilde would
Surely cry for me,
For we poets know
A common need.

Shakespeare too
Would surely moan,
For all the pleasures
I've never known.

George Bernard Shaw
Would sob with shame,
Muttering again
And again my name.

Alfred Tennyson too
Would mourn my strife,
For, for me suffering
Is a way of life.

Ernest Hemingway
Would listen to my plight,
And know how I've suffered
From merely being alive.

Kipling and Keats
Yes and Longfellow too,
Would all know of the pain
That life put me through.

Hardy and Dante
And even Robert Blair,
Would think of my life
With such utter despair.

Thomas Moore, yes
And Alexander Pope,
Would know I've lived life
Without purpose or hope.

George Santayana
And even Walter Scott,
Knew of the good things
My life never got.

Robert Louie Stevenson
And the great Mark Twain,
Would know that my life
Has been one sad refrain.

Salvador Quasimodo
And Upton Sinclair,
Have tasted the success
That for me wasn't there.

Milton and Priestly
Would see with remorse,
All the troubles I've met
On my life's sorry course.

Orwell and Huxley
And perhaps Tolstoy too,
Would mourn for my life
Now that it is through.

© Copyright 2011
Philip Roberts

© Copyright 2017 Philip Roberts. All rights reserved.

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