epigram

Author's Lament

To submit my wit
in pithy form
I struggle and strive
words to transform;
certain I'll be
discovered a sham
with each sad,
tortured epigram.
I search my brain
for clever phrases
in hopes that you
will sing my praises
but sure my thoughts
on deaf ears fall.
I line my hopes
against the wall
and give them
one last cigarette,
blindfolded and
in a cold-sweat.
I steel myself
for the "ready, aim, fire"
of the withering scorn
that must soon transpire.
But silence instead
greets my quivering fears -
disregarded
by my peers.
And which is worse?
I cannot tell.
Differing versions of
my own special hell.