The funniest thing about poetry
is that when you submit to editors
what you believe is your best work
and you're full of hope and excited
to think that this may be the time
I get published in a professional
writing journal that next to no one reads
or even knows about except other geek
poets and writers, and then you get
their cold as fuck rejection letter,
anonymous, uninspiring, brutal
ugly, heartless, diminished capacity,
with your hopes dashed, you still think
you may have a chance elsewhere
or someday, somewhere along the line,
because professional suicide is all but
impossible in writing unless you've
already made it as a writer in the big
leagues, where they chew tobacco
and spit wherever the fuck they want
because the dugout is theirs and no one
else's, and your pitch wasn't good enough.
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