Bad Poets Poem by Whit Leyenberger

And I’m writing.
And it isn’t going well.
As I’m sure you know.
And I’m listening to a genius’ symphony,
Watching a genius’ film and sitting,
Gut over my waistband,
Trying to write something worth it.
Yeah, sure thing.

So I’m halfway through a bottle
Of wine and I’m standing on the roof
And it’s cold
And I’m looking at those three
Visible stars and I think:
They don’t care
They don’t care if it’s worth it
They don’t shine for me or
Anybody else, they just shine
Because it’s all they know
They can’t help their brilliance
So it has no worth

To hell with it
Tonight with whatever's left
Of this bottle I salute
The bad poets. I raise a toast
To the only people who write
Honestly, because they might as
Well. I drink to you, comrades.

And in the darkness, countless voices
Echo back without irony or cheer