I cut pages,
to watch them bleed,
hipster, broken symbolism,
and what a worn-out image.
used, worn-out,
broken,
like all of us,
but is that all we can say?
Where is the lyricism,
not of Milton, Donne,
but of harsh reality,
Bukowski, Hemingway?
Where have we scurried,
and how far removed,
are we from greatness?
We are nowhere.
We float in endless space,
choking on too much time,
ideas dying every second,
like all of the starving poor.
Ideas are starving,
and I'm only one writer.
Andy Veilleux 
“I cut pages,
to watch them bleed,”
what a way to start!
“We are nowhere.”
and by being nowhere, we are somewhere. x
thanks 🙂
Andy as I read this you reminded me of something one of my University writing professors said…’there are many good poets…but the great ones are made by their critics.”…I still smile each time I think of thaat…thanks for the fine poem.
thanks slpmartin. I’m glad you enjoyed it!