And so it starts, like this or like some other thing just like it, you know? And its all ‘rah, rah, rah!!!’. Right in my head anyways, you know? But its on paper, and its shit – like words writ in some long forgotten poetic medium (God help me, I’m floundering even now, and…)
But fuck it, can I swear in this medium? Can I scream like some demented animal at you? And you’ll be like ‘I heard where you were coming from, but its not quite there’, but who cares? And why do I do this, why do I write these? Why do I even bother try?
But I’m doing this for you, for the face I’ll never see, for the voice I just cant hear, maybe reading these lines out loud (Its Iambic – it really is). And I’m doing this because, deep inside I guess I always have, had these mad urges for. For what?
I guess its fame. Or fortune, but either way – whats a poem worth? Whats my life worth to you, or to some blank-eyes company counting dollars, and this ending sucks so hard that I’m just waiting for your bad review as this poem peters out and dies.
Meaningless Drivel - A poem about writing poetry
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