J.J. Campbell

the sweet nectar of death

they never warn you as a 
young poet about the nights 
alone
 
digging through the garbage
for a meal
 
that all the good poems will 
come to you while taking 
a shit
 
that no one wants to read
anything other than what
they have written themselves
 
there is no money in it for you 
until you taste the sweet nectar 
of death
 
yet here we all are
 
scribbling down random thoughts 
and swearing someone is going to 
nourish the genius trapped between 
each phrase
 
there are no rich women to take 
care of us
 
no fans mailing you dirty underwear 
from another country
 
hell, even the stalkers have given up
 
it’s an old barn in the middle of nowhere
 
the trusty shotgun from the corner
 
the last bottle of scotch you’ll ever 
get to enjoy