This poem was the result...
The story is late again
The existing tales are a dollar short
They’re too many dollars short
Expectations of publication falling flat, tripping over reality
There’s no even enough for a cup of coffee
Publish enough and you’ll gain revenue from each work
Publish enough and save enough to self-publish
Only the works are disappearing from the venues
Rights reverting, stories returning
Sources of revenue drying up
Leaving me distracted, having to find them new homes
There’s still not enought to self-publish
What have I learned from publication?
No matter how hard I try not to, I make mistakes
No matter how cautious I am, I founder
Left with less cash for myself, let alone everyone else
Sometimes I want to cry
Knowing I’m a single voice crying out in a sea of voices
All a day late and a dollar short
Some never get published
Some never open that door
It’s just the first in a series of doors
May I move beyond a day late and a dollar short
Only I find myself in a place neither better nor worse
Looking at bigger and bigger problems
Along with bigger and bigger rewards
Part of my soul shrinks from this
My cautious, cowardly soul
Seeing the monoliths of success trapped on their pedestals
Yes, they misstepped, but it’s so easy to misstep
Say the wrong thing, write the wrong thing
Letting loose the arrow that strikes the vulnerable reader
I’ve loosed that arrow
I’ve been struck so many times
I’ve done all this while I’m still tiny
How much worse would it be if I was great?
Am I afraid of greatness?
How much is me being small?
How much of that smallness is fear of greatness?
I envy it, yet I fear it
A dangerous combination
To learn is to grow
What alternative is there, to shrink?
To stop learning?
I have to grow, I have succeed
Even if one of the obstacles is myself
I have to overcome myself to become myself
Opening door after door
Hoping there are wonders along with horrors
All waiting behind the next one.
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