pōət

I am a poet. A breeze of emotions. Nothing but words, feelings, and expressions, drip, from my eyes, like tears. Sometimes, I even feel like, I've wasted, some of my best years. God! I wasted my love, on the dead, and let the lies of false lovers, fill my pretty head.

Those people who don't give a fuck about calling to see, if you made it through the day, because, they're just, "too busy," or so they all say. I am the pōət who's emotional erection, goes soft, in every way. Undoubtedly, each time, I try make friends, take numbers, make conversation... and then, eventually, drift away... because I can't relate.

I can't identify, with the people, who care more about, paying bills, having cars, money, stuff, and a place, more than they need air, in their lungs, and food on their plates. I am a pōət with a soul, in pieces.

Every piece, taken, by the people who I thought of as, my personal, Jesus. Each one, disappointing; an utter defeat. Those, who were, users, liars, pretenders and cheats. I am the pōət, writing their tale. Sparing no frankness, or a single detail. A train, which has most certainly, derailed. Humanity.

It's getting to a point where, humans, in all their, greed, lust for power; means more to them, than, lost time, with loved ones, and lost days, lost, to lost hours. Lost, self-love and community. It's to a point where, this pōət, grieves, because, humanity...

no longer means a thing to me.