Confession | Carlyle R. Phelps

Confession:

I never wanted fame nor fortune—
Well, maybe a few bucks for a bite to eat—
But I never sought my name in lights,
Big productions, nor pomp and circumstance.
Gimme an uneven stool in a cafe
Or the sepia smell of a used book store.
That don’t mean I’m an artist, though,
That just means I’m poor.

I’ve a fear of success bubblin’ under the surface—
I’d wilt under the scrutiny of spotlights.
I’ve nothing special to offer—
I’ve not read enough, nor written enough.
I’ve said nothin’ thousands haven’t thought.
I’m sure the big-brain intellects leaves ‘em speechless,
While I have ‘em sniggerin’ at my hats—
My shy lyrical fingers are seemingly reach-less.

I haven’t the wits to write A Psalm of Life,
With words like bivouac, within a unifying message—
I can’t even string a sentence— ‘s why I write poems.
Maybe if my stomach and heart reconciled earlier,
I’d be a little further down the road—
Earnin’ a royal livin’ on an oiled poem—
Instead of squeakin’ by,
One bad Wednesday from bein’ out a home.

Don’t bury your talents waiting for permission.
Use ‘em, gain interest, and maintain retention.

Linktree:
https://linktr.ee/carlylephelpspoetry

Books on Amazon:
https://a.co/d/gcej9WH
https://a.co/d/crVSI20