The Poet

The Poet.

Me.

No need to dwell on it…

Inwardly pessimistic until the

Pen lends an outstretched hand.

Interpret that.

I bet you are right now.

He stares at this new age thing,

Thoughts pouring out through not his mind

But his fingers…

Tiny capillaries bridging the gap between

Flesh and plastic.

An artificial sunset hangs on his wall.

He hopes to avoid the real one.

The real artificial one, if you follow.

He eats a sandwich as he types

And he searches the room for any kind of

Small inspirations in the hope that the final product will

Somehow

Perhaps

Be…

Profound.

Or at least entertaining to someone…

Anyone.

Just one.

Because that’s what this new age life is all about.

The poet’s not alone anymore.

We’re all poets.

Or something.