The pain words can cause,

and what if the sun never rises?

cold

dark and lonely but

there is something else.

There's gotta be something more

than

this

and it mattered fifteen times less than

anyone was willing to admit.

Faux poets and fake spoken word artists

dance in a room

speaking in tongues

and patting each others back getting each other off and saying

just how fucking GREAT

they have gotten at nothing.

Not a literal nothing,

and this poem just hit me with deja vu.

Have I disgraced the circle-jerkers before,

or is this the first time, and why the memory being

rehashed like an egg mcmuffin?

Future uncertain, but leave it to the back-patters and

drum-beaters

and forgotten poets who killed themselves before publishing

to dictate the scene,

because it matters as much as

someone re-writing Shakespeare in ebonics.