Pushing Words

I often feel as if I've been writing the same poem
Over and over.
Like Sisyphus, I am pushing these words
Up the same dramatic arc,
And when I let go they fall into the same empty silence.
The praise always seems the same and never enough
Like a glass of whiskey that leaves you high, dry,
And completely cut off from the rest of society.
"But what about the oeuvre?" you say.
"Every poem is an addition to a much larger construct."
But I say, Where is the diamond in the rough?
Where is the poem that will be held up to the light
And placed in the canon next to
Poe's The Raven and Eliot's Wasteland?
I'll tell you where.
It's right here.
I am done with merely pushing words.
I'm at the top of the hill and I'm not coming down.
I'll stay right here and recite these words
Till Zeus himself reprieves me
And takes me to Olympus
To give me his laurel crown.