As I Read Poetry Submissions in Hell; I Don't Have Imposter Syndrome by John Sara

As I Read Poetry Submissions in Hell

I sold my soul to be a poet,

but the devil told me I looked more like an editor.

Sometimes I wonder if rejection is the eighth deadly sin,

those three damned words: “didn’t grab me”,

as though poems have hands that grip;

claws that can break through my monitor

and pull me into inferno.

They stick their fingers in my stomach,

whisper in my ear.

See how strong our words are.

See how they make you bleed.

I Don’t Have Impostor Syndrome

I already know I sit odd in this skin.

Last night, I came down in my spaceship,

killed the author with his own pen;

peeled him open like a tangerine

or some other Earthly metaphor.

(Ooh, that’s a good one. Write it down.)

I’m gonna go up to that microphone

and read those words like they’re written

in my blood. No one is going to notice

how I sweat under the lights,

as though I’m melting,

my flesh suit beginning to rot.

And when I get to the final line,

those flesh bags will snap for me.

Oh, how they’ll snap for me.