People pass on through
on the way to someplace
I don’t care to know.
Even listening to them talk
gives me reason why, I need to escape.
I’ve been listening my whole life
and I don’t need to
Still, I write about people
and I write about what I need to escape from
We are trapped in a cosmic coincidence
like the lion and the gazelle
People aren’t bad
Maybe, I’m bad
I just don’t know.
I listened to a book review, on my favorite writer
the guy doing the YouTube video
has tried to be this writer, but like most fantasies
it has only left him with nothing.
He talks about the writer, as if he was sub-par
Any listener can tell
he, wanted to be his hero
“Read Steinbeck, instead,” he said. “The other writer, only writes about himself.”
When our dreams defeat us, we don’t know what to do
the world is a sea of disappointed people
The video-maker went through, the motions, but the motions didn’t matter
It’s the heart of a man, that endures, or it doesn’t
a real writer, continues on, forever
long after he is dead, and he can’t be killed.
He doesn’t care about disappointed people, or criticism
He is hated and loved, more than ever!
Wannabes, think they can make a million dollars by writing 200 pages
they produce, what I want to get away from
Their lives, are inside out
their tags, are showing
small, pre-shrunk, 14.95.
I am reminded of beautiful women
who are told they own the world
by ugly men on the ground, who want to trap them
they call, and sprinkle seed, and make bird-houses
but these lustful swans of the air
land in empty fields
because they don’t want to be killed.