Aching arches of smiles while away my time,
Excruciatingly patronising and pedantic,
Reassuring themselves but never I,
That I believe they like my rhyme.
Sent back out into the world of defeat,
I return with noncommittal nods,
To friends and family I can't disappoint,
Who I can never let hear me bleat.
An audience of a wall I crash into before,
I prepare for the the next whirling blow,
A stunt man readying his canon,
Using my helmet to knock on every door.
A real job is always there,
Waiting for me to take,
One of modest means and steady work,
Something I'll endure but never care.
But I will be worse off than now,
Hurt and scorned and sliced by letters,
Envious and cruel and jealous,
Of those that make me wonder how.
I have no way to win this fight,
No assurance I will survive,
But try, try, try, try, try and more;
That is our Sisyphean plight.