They Were the Actors

The life of a poet.

Following the shoes

that have been left before me

by Ms. Plath,

I now understand

acquiescence to any reality

but my own

is an indefinite

and impossible path

which I must not follow.

Furthermore I have concluded

that until I can determine

said reality

I must begin to mold and create

anything resembling

that distant and untraceable

idea of human

that Wilde left

unfounded in my mind.

Finally, I believe

that such a project

must be undertaken

by my muse,

strengthened by

the zealous and indulgent use

of my pre-existing vices,

a technique Bukowski

was more than willing

to teach me.

In short,

the exasperating

but still unastonishing life

of any poet

is determined

by a sort of fate

brewed not by

an omniscient force

by any means

but by the entity

created by

and comsuming

said poet.