they call me intrusive

i am not inspired rather


because i see words honest and true

and i look at mine

my ambigious words and try hard metaphors

and i see nothing but desperate attempts to be profound

meaningless and quiet frankly stupid

empty words that make sense but just

lie there


i am no romantic. no transcendentalist.

i conform. manipulating definitions

scribbled out lines are not because

i can't put my thoughts onto paper

or because my mind is full of art

it is because it is void of art

this poetry is not poetry

it is an ugly reguritation of what i have been taught

but i am not inebriate of air 

nor do i suck the marrow out of life

rather i sit

sitting with a pen thinking

not of what i want to say

but of what you want to hear

sometimes i think i don't

want to say anything. 

my whole life i've been silent

afraid of speaking because


i don't know

i am a fake poet

writing fake words

a faux revolutonary 

this endless repetition 

of nothing

of nothing

of nothing

gets me nowhere

i cannot dance with my hands or

make art with my voice

i will not change

once more i will write about

love and 

lose and

pain and

every overdone cliche that just

all sounds the same

i will write about beauty

in unexpected places

that i do not see

this is not a metaphor and

i was not made for this

This poem is about: 


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