The Heart Of A Poet Poem by Dave SmithWhite

Deep in my heart, I found a part,
A part that I thought I'd forsworn.
But there from the start, and marked so on a chart:
The arc of my life was stillborn.

Deep in my mind, I knew what I'd find,
That I'd been designed, to fail.
For there lay within, an original sin;
The glitch, which I signed in on, was male.

Deep in my soul, I found a hole:
A black hole no scope could reveal.
Will I bear the full toll, of a less aware troll,
Or share the grim burden I feel?

Deep in my gut, there can be no if or but;
I can't deny these things that I've said.
In my lonely hut, I'll walk tall and I'll strut,
And shut out all the noises in my head.

As a bard much too smart, more a Homer than a Bart,
Am I bent to a satire made poesy?
For deep in my heart, I'm a slave to my art,
While the future looks too bleak, and not rosy.

From the mall to the quickie mart, will it all, just fall apart?
Is my dry wit, a wee bit tart and easy?
Are my targets way too soft, to be held so high, aloft?
Are all my barbs too light and slight and breezy?

Like a gritty droll upstart, or a petty Bonaparte,
The critic so imparts how doors are jammed.
You may enter or depart if the menus 'a la carte',
And you fill up their captain's cart until it's crammed.

So they shoot their poisoned darts, like all cute bleeding hearts,
With the poet's words dismissed when they are slammed.
When I think of what I am, these old frauds are a sham.
And I'm the sad Descartes of the damned!