I sit and see before me
lines of literature marching
writers, authors, poets
brandishing skilled nibs and tips
and having it out with every last:
philosophy, sentiment and learning
and feel out-trumped, out-witted,
out-matched and out-tricked;
each word up my sleeve a redundancy
and each brilliance a mimicry
who am I to contest such giants,
their canons blasting holes
in my fragile verses
and surreptitious lines
and guilty poems
that, every bit mine,
have the stamp of amateur
trodden all over them.

If I may yet then
have something literary they do not,
then it is these lines,
in all humility:
If I am not great, and witty,
and deserving of praise,
then at least
I know also
that I am not
cocky;
literally.