“Get ready to multiply by a million, dear boy”
What a well-known baracuda said to me, whispered in my pin-pricked ear
“You continue to do what you’ve been doing and they WILL keep coming, just give it TIME”
Bloody sublime, just what I needed to hear before the anxiety, the fear set in, you see I no longer knew if I was in it to win it, all truth told poetry never really my thing
“People are talking… by God they’re starting to bloody squack… what they need to be doing, and from what I hear you even have a few talented musicians willing to sing!”
My time to shine perhaps, do my best to write hard, lap it all up, take each and every swipe, quick-witted jibe that comes from those who barred poetry from their life a long time ago, make them return with their tail between their legs, begging for a personalised poem for a wife possibly on the verge of being estranged
Impressed to the last, all along keeping an eye out for the real ‘fans’, is it ok to inverted comma them, the ones who gave me a chance in the beginning, allowing for those early words to dance
What if he’s right… will I wake up one morning to the fright of my life, have everyone and their mother desperate to meet this one author
What will I tell them, that I don’t know what to say, other than “there are over three-hundred poems on my website that I pray to God go about explaining to you how it is exactly I managed to find my literary way”
Sure it’s what I want, but more than the fame, a crazy search for acknowledgement, I will hand on my heart always need for the font to read just write

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