Only a few get discovered eventually, most remain invisible and obscure,
That you'll get recognition posthumously, are you confident, are you sure?
The world is not malicious, it simply doesn't for anyone care,
You cannot bridge the chasm, no matter how long you stare.
A deep abyss stretches between, your desire to make sense,
To capture in your poetry, all matters light and dense,
And the indifference of the universe, that you cannot capture in verse,
You may not matter to the world, but the world perturbs you- for better or worse.
You constructed an elaborate ruse, with poetry at its core,
Which may be systematically dismantled, with random events in store.
You get a lucky breakthrough, land a high paying job,
Poetry practice goes for a toss, your serenity the work robs.
When I say the world is indifferent, it's not cruel, it may land a jackpot,
So just let me write poems daily, never mind if they are neither read nor sought.
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