After Daniel Morris and his countless rejections

How many times have I scratched the depths 
Of my soul, picked away at which superlative, 
Which adjective, to convey the paralyzing 
Times measured in my life to share?

I gather my terms, put on a showcase, 
Step out into the world to give my all- 
A slither of hope, an undercurrent of melancholy, 
And multitudes of painfully learned lessons.

Over time and time again, rejected. 
In the most hurtful way, “Please don’t resend 
For we are not amused or enlightened in the 
Slightest bit of your personal perdition.”

Do I scrap this heartfelt sonnet into the heap? 
Keep it for another pair of eyes, to stir another’s soul? 
All the trivial, trite confessions won’t change the world 
View or reassure those suffering from apprehension.

I toss it back into the notebook, in the fold with the others. 
How could they not recognize the ingredients 
For a masterpiece? I pick up the pen again, 
For one day it’ll reach the audience I seek.

I pull out the tucked-under-the-covers moments, 
Those crawl-back-into-the-void moments to give readers 
Something to anticipate; it should be so clear. 

A brushing back of a loose tendril behind her ear, 
To inhale the intoxicating aroma of a loved one 
Only to be pushed aside like a pestering rodent.