Sometimes I delude myself <br />Thinking I'm writing poems, but then I read somebody elses <br />And I get so blown away, and I realize again: <br />I'm not really writing poems; I'm just building houses out of cards; <br />Forts out of chairs and blankets; <br />Making an out of alphabetical order dictionary <br />Missing all the best words. <br />I could shrivel up from the white hot jealousy <br />But I also pay secret homage inside, <br />Kneel down to that other writing <br />Take off my hat because <br />That's real, that's soulful, that's full of vitality and meaning: <br />I'd pray for a blood transfusion with your blood <br />I'd beg for a brain transplant <br />Or at least a telepathic exchange for a fortnight, <br />Not that any of those can help with my problem- <br />Like Salieri, I'm not so lacking in discernment, <br />As to not recognize true genius- <br />Unfortunately my senses are fully intact there. <br />So even though I leave nice comments on your smoking stuff.. <br />Never think for one minute, that I would not enjoy <br />Hearing news of your death.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bad-news-good-news/
