I've been rejected again,
another letter: "Thank you
for your interest, but
unfortunately, you have not
been selected at this time.
Good luck in future endeavors."
With that they close the letter.
And another note flashes in the inbox
to say my writing doesn't pass the canon
of yet another editor, and I think
to myself, "I'm through with words.
They've never caused me anything
but trouble, and I hate them."
And to engrave my frustration
on the world, I write this poem,
and another and another
in the quiet hours all mine
and no one else's, hours spent
alone with my mind, blooming
unkept, as a garden with no one
to sing to it, or read in its shaded corners.
And the weeds wax thick with color,
but they are only weeds. I am
afraid to plant the seeds of a citrus
or hearty conifer to consume my softened
attempts, turn them to biting spines.
Those you cannot uproot and take along
when acceptance finally sends its memo.