Unpublished.

Maybe it's because I don't know the right people.
Maybe it's because my favorite writers aren't scholars with years of schooling in literary craft, but sweaty, hairy men on a stage, slapping a bass or pounding a cowbell.
Maybe it's because poetry to me isn't a painting, but a photograph.
Maybe it's because I'm a photographer who hasn't discovered Photoshop.
Maybe it's spite. Envious spite.
Maybe it's the language; maybe it's too thick and obscure.
Maybe it's the hours spent clicking buttons and gazing at back-lit screens instead of pouring over the sacred scriptures.
Burning my precious time away
like a cigarette on an ashtray.
Maybe it's trite similes like that.
Maybe it's because I don't care enough.
Maybe I'm just delusional.
Maybe it's because it's not my time.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I suck.

-Brien