I long to know what I'm up against,
my competition,
those who will win silver cups
and
accolades

while I sit longingly
and
wait

those whose words will find
the ordered spaces
of a published piece
and
fall in place
as if meant to be.

At the selling table
I exchange dollars
for a glimpse
into their thoughts.

What I see does not
surprise me,
confirming
what I knew already.

Their words caress
the page
and
make it smile.

Their screams slash it
and
make a gaping hole
through which
pour their souls.

Sounding weak
and
foolish,
my own words
echo
in my head.

I want to take them back,
embarrassed
that I ever set them down
and
gave them to be judged.