Every writer thinks that they’re writing great stuff
If they didn’t, then why would they bother ?
Each one thinks they’re a genius, a craftsman or a seer
Better than all of the others
Who wants to think that they’re mediocre ?
Who wants to think they’re no good ?
When they feel art in every heartbeat
And literature flowing through their blood
At least 90% have to face up to
The fact they never got it quite right
They weren’t who they thought they were
They were never that good
Their names will disappear into the night
It must be one of the saddest things about humanity
To live a full life, yet get nowhere
To be born at the bottom of the mountain
A lifetime later to still be standing there
To never make a mark upon the centuries
When you see the shit the general public gets fed
The idiots get rich and move to L.A.
I’m here in Stoke, might as well be dead
2 thoughts on “Ian Copestick”
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Ian may I repost your poem my Facebook page?