Pay Up Fans

my proudest stories, are left behind

my barest poems, left in the cold

i write about y'all sucking

and

you suck

you suck hard

milk that poem for all its worth

($0.24 maybe, at best?)

and i giggle, like every artist starving while feeding from their art

how little we really matter

how insignificant we really are

how hard we struggle to even cover the payment of existence

how we barely survive

but we are left, drowning in our own words,

searching

for the one tethered

the connection

buzzword like key

that will somehow make us feel seen, less alone, less disposable

is it a hashtag? the right acronym? a hit loop of a song no one knows who wrote?

how gullible we are to think any of it matters

how human we are to think we matter

where we each claw for a chance of fame and fortune but end up getting more scratched that anything else

how far have you clawed? who'd you take down to get here

how far did you go

have you hit bottom yet?

bounced into brick wall on a shiny pogo stick in an attempt to get higher

are you proud?

proud of what you've done and who you've become?

does it still feel like poetry if it's tainted with other's blood?

you tell me

or don't

$0.24 won't cover my rent anyways