The time is ripe,
to verse about
poetic hype.
The hype isn't the verse,
it's in the poets head curse.
Poet writes a few poems,
his head swells as he
spreads a few charms.

Then poet dreams of grandeur,
but he really isn't sure.
A few years pass furbished,
the poet tries to get published.
He runs into a brick wall,
no publisher comes to call.

Reality sets in big,
as he tries to survive
in the great belly of the pig.
Poet either continues to write,
or retreats into the night.
Becomes a part of
the walking dead,
roaming with negativity
in his head. 

Or he continues to have fun,
that's me poet One.
The heck with the hype,
I love my fun juicy and ripe,
I'm the fun loving type,
but I'm also into the ripe,
getting published is my goal,
won't give up until
they bury me in a hole.

OnepoetGem