All artists strive to be like the Greats.
No shame in vying to be someone's Van Gogh,
Going, going, gone, Homer
with his Odysseys and Iliads
and to all, a million ears lent.
Just as Romans did to Antony in Caesar.
Shakespeare's sonnets sold out theatres,
but I grasp at the same words as he.
I pin them to the walls.
I paint them on the mirror.
The reflection skips "good enough."
It's better, or it's nothing, not mine.
My biggest fan and toughest critic
looks me in the eye.
"All the world is not a stage," he says,
"But a podium built for champions.
Nonetheless, you must perform."

I ask the glass,
"What have the Greats done better than I?"
"𝘋𝘪𝘦𝘥," says he.