I'm Reading About The After-Life, When I Should Be Working On This One

Shouldn't I know by now that poems are just a headless hammer?
A failed and broken cure for growing older?
All they're good for is showing everyone the way the poets are
Even my best rhymes can't cover it up
Can't cover it up
But I still say
Give me two more weeks and ten Saturday's
And I swear I'll make everything feel ok
I think you're showing me open doors
But the key is still in the lock, and I have no idea if they're open-ended...

On a summer day, you and me
Making our own paradise
But not the one that really matters
I smile when I think of my accidental genius
And frown at all my goodly contrived mistakes
I'm trying to cast off the skeletons on my back
Just remember to remind me why we came before the last song plays

...

Well, that was a nice poem. I think that it's funny, how often I write. I hear lots of good things about my work, but...Sometimes to me it seems like I'm just massproducing sentiment. Is it still meaningful if there's a million other near-copies of the work? Is it still possible to be original, in a world like the one we have today, where the Internet spreads everything out over the entire Earth? Can people still come up with some sacred scrap of cleverness? Am I being original, or just lying in a new way? I don't know. I just don't know. And I don't think I'm anywhere near to figuring it out. So until I do, or don't, I'll just sit here, typing on my keyboard, cranking out hopes, dreams, and words that other people don't have the strength or natural wit to speak.

I still have far to go...I haven't published anything yet. I'm sitting here in my tiny, rented room in the metropolis of the Blagosphere. And what am I doing? Whispering to the world. I really should try to get some of this between the covers of a book. There's far more out there then just a network of blogs....maybe I should try aiming for success in the real world, the one where you live and die. Well, dear audience, back to the play...

...

Is my heart a little more than you bargined for?
I can tell you wanted a cat, but you got a lion
You're taking yourself down, and dragging everyone with you on your way up
There's a loaded gun in the closet, and the crowd in the theater says
"Don't pull it, don't pull it"
Well, you make another notch in the wall to tell the time
But it's seven o'clock according to your watch
If almost none of my metaphors and witticisms make sense
I guess, incoherently enough, I'm still making myself known
Even if it's only through mystery, like why I'm listening to the same song
Three times in the half hour