An Actor in Waiting

He always thought
That he would be famous,
That he had as much talent
As anyone on stage,
And a whole lot more than
Most of those
Who had already succeeded.
He assumed that
Someday he would be discovered
And he had waited
More than fifty years
For that to happen.
He had prepared himself
For the fame he expected
Spending years writing
The memoirs of his early years
Recalling what it was like
Before he had achieved
His just reward,
But now they seemed
The portrait of a fool.
He surrounded himself
With an eclectic acting crowd,
People who had talent too,
From the fringes
Of the movie world,
And each of whom felt like him,
Perpetually cheated
Out of the fame
That was rightfully theirs.
He commiserated
With that group,
Lamenting each new star
Who passed him by.
He set himself apart
From those of lessor talent,
And each year the gap grew
Until he and his group were
A virtual island unto themselves,
Isolated and unique
From the rest of the world.
He built a life
Around his eccentricities
And in the end
That was all he had
Left to hold onto.
He had become a sad
But self-righteous misfit,
Uncomprehending of the way
The world works,
Begrudging the fact
That it never worked his way.