Reminder for poets

Remember 

that even the best
have ripped out their hair in frustration.
Thrown out or hidden with shame
the unworthy, half-born carcasses
that turned out
too ugly to ever be revealed. 

I wonder how deep they had to dig 

till they found
a poem worth keeping.
if there were fifty
or five hundred others
that paved or blocked its way  
if there was a rarer gem
disguised in dirt or blood
that got discarded too, 
like flowers dried to stones
wilting
before they could bloom. 

Not every poem 

will be iridescent, I know,
when it feels like all I can spin
is apathy
masquerading as poems– 
I know I should not forget.
but I just can’t imagine 
if Bukowski’s worst work
looked anything like this,  
how long
he waited or wrote
till something good came along.
maybe
he never thought it did. 
maybe
you never 

do.