placed on the counter a letter of acceptance, for my brother, who I suspect my mother favors

a letter which I've already had, which is now in the past, and now it is his turn to take a chance

and I sit and ponder, with my wine, after showing...spite, in spite of myself

hating myself for not speaking highly of him, confused about how it is I can emerge, knowing that there is something inside of me burning, but the energy does not run on love alone, no, I rely on their support

bothered, hopeless, a prince, nothing is my own, the son of PHD's, working everyday, heavily, work as a way of life, climbing fossilized into the very spirit, the bone, the bone, the bone, to pursue or to desire something other than the hardest of work is frightening, is unknown,

an artist supported by business, working in tandem for years, perhaps the two couldn't work without each other, art in its arrogance and business in its modesty, or perhaps the other way around,

even a site called hello poetry, what of its business?  I am not sure, what of its profits?  not a clue, they could be benefitting off of every word I write, but I depend on their site to project my bits, my uselasssfullglossful sentiments, with notes at the end that gives one an opportunity to be fabulous

fabulous, fabulousness, entry, entress, prince, looking up at the twighlight, rescued by nothing, a rebel with something to lose, a bourgeois without room for entitlement, entitlement being the reward of bourgeois, or perhaps education alone, I can be grateful for

which brings me back to that acceptance letter, and my feelings of spite, then I spat, and I want to confess tonight, that I regret that