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


any longer.

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.

2 thoughts on “I’m done with you.

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