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.