nobody reads poety anymore.
they don't even read the paper.
they read, emails and texts.
notes written on the run.
beach books.
mysteries and easy to digest
efforts,
that make you weary, make you numb.
no one steps out and reads the hard stuff.
the real thing.
the blood of us, the bones,
the heart of who we really are.
we soothe ourselves with soft
lullabyes, with
the inane, the middle of the road,
what the masses want.
little thought, little strain,
let's go gently in to that good night
with never knowing who we are,
why we're here.
let's change the channel and surf
the wasteland
without tears, without fear, without
a soul.
a life unlived and never whole.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment