Poets starve on street corners with outstretched hands.
God, have mercy! I despise the sight of the page
where metaphors are recycled like aluminum cans
for a nickel a piece, but hardly make enough change
for me to buy beer (and I used to consider my verses
priceless). While you invest your time into money, blind
to beauty, only trying to stuff your wallets and purses,
the muses are laboring and you pay them no mind.
My soul is swollen with unanswered prayers,
my words fall lifeless like a soldier’s flatline,
I wake up every morning to the eternal grayness
that spreads like incense smoke over the skyline.
My closest friends are scattered throughout the centuries.
We write to each other to remain in touch.
No, these aren’t poems here, - these are journal entries,
timeless and beautiful, treat them as such…