Not usually the jealous type,
Certainly not when it comes to art,
But oh so disappointed when the part
Of the rebellious writer proves to belong
To someone else, reducing you to one among
The many faceless under hyped.
And so before I allow myself to sleep
I lethargically almost meditate
On words to which you so long could relate,
Then, suddenly awake, realise that you were right,
So, if you wish, rejoice in the delight
Of this young man’s shallow words now proving deep.