If your poems
Go into the flush
And they lose meaning
Don't pull the plug
As long you aren't being demeaning
If you aren't published
Don't feel bad
People won't notice you
Unless you notice yourself
The dead won't turn in the grave
For your inexorable talent
They will not Cahill
Saying who is better
If you do not come to compare
Because they are dead
And you just might be better
Than the unoriginal writers
Out there in the starry world
That offers stars and moon
For a sky that has only a midnight spoon
Which curls quietly till it
Culls the daylight
It won't be afternoon
Till you say that it was all
Too late or too soon