to the almost-famous

you’ll lie down into the dark
for the last time
with your crooked spine
turn over what went wrong,
relive alcoholic dreams
your overly-poetic fuckings
and not-abusive-enough parents

you’ll tell yourself
this world doesn’t like art
doesn’t like ugly people making money
doesn’t recognize honest talent
this world breeds contempt

and you’ll writhe in disgust and spit on
first-grade dreams
choke on unwarranted sex and your
cubicle on the third floor
that kept food in your mouth

or

maybe you just
(really)
weren’t that talented
after all.



its alright --
in the end we all end up the same,
anyway.