Lifted

Well, I guess no one can have everything.
I must learn to celebrate when I fail.
Inner growth and fortitude follow the sting,
right? Won't I rise with holy wind in my sails?
Yet they always seem to get what I want,
door after door flung open. Why are
the keepers of doors, who haunt
the hopeful halls of fate and desire
so partial to them, but not to me?
Yes, I do feel sorry for myself—don't, brother,
pretend the bitter blanket of self-pity,
hasn't warmed your bones. It's not lovers
or fame I crave, nor even happiness, particularly.
Only to be lifted, just once, above all others.
Credit

Copyright © 2019 by Craig Morgan Teicher. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 5, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“Poetry is, among other things, a place to let my demons graze. This, alas, is one of them: the voice of someone not inured to the regular wrist slaps of rejection that are part of the writer’s life. It’s also one of many sonnets I wrote during a period of time when I became a bit addicted to them. Beware of sonnets; they can be habit-forming.”
—Craig Morgan Teicher