Disappointment

[billy]

Considering my oeuvre today, the five hundred poems
(excluding this one) I've written since I turned fifteen,
I see the most recurrent theme is disappointment.
This wasn't intentional. Throughout my short life
as a writer of verse I've thought myself a love poet,
one who expresses indifference to life,
and deals with those demons called Passion and Hate.
But as I've confessed to you numerous times
I've never held romantic love, even for the boy
I said I did in early, unstructured whimsies.
No. Reflecting on all my very last lines,
my endings, my closers, my parting insights,
they each pull the rug from out underneath
stories of sex and gluttony, with sorrow like a
lead balloon, crashing down upon my name.
What is my problem? I think mournfully.
Surely this can't be my "vision"? Do I just not know
how to draw the curtains without a snide,
cutting remark? Why my obsession with disappointment?
I should be angry and cruel, a grim libertine,
when truth be told, as I look back, I seem more like a dying man,
being told every Saturday that his grandchildren couldn't make it.

i have one nit on what is for me another wise piece of excellent writing;
the 1st line;
'considering my egg' 'the 500 poems'

it feels like the poems are considering the egg, and it feels a little off.

after that...bravo on what is a great piece of introspective writing,
i loved the ast two lines and the rest of the lines (bar the 1st )
thanks for the read jack