..and yet?

I am a prolific writer. I am a proficient poet. And yet...

Employment is scarce. They rather hire men- that prey on young acts and form the wrong script,

simply because they are known.

How, how, how. How do I become known?

Would it be far beyond me, to use my own blood as ink?

Perhaps it would reach the ego of men beyond me- or, beyond reasoning.

HOLLYWOOD IS OVER! they proclaim. MOVIES ARE BAD NOW.

many say. Why? Why, why, why. How do I become a writer that is valued.

I am not a writer until I am published, according to some.

So what am I? I bleed words. I am prose. But I am just a hopeful. Another waste.

I will never be chosen by those of Burton's status until I am famous.

How do I become that? Keep cutting myself until I bleed gold? Until I depend on liquor and nicotine and hallucinogenics, like that of Poe?

There is so much talent. They- the gods of cinema- are searching.

And yet...

I am buried beneath the bunch.