Subverted

It's

Not

Real.

.

It's not real.

.

It's not real, it's not real, it's not real.

.

It. Isn't. Real.

But fuck...do I wish that it was.

.

I wish that this was a powerful thing,

A sweeping thing with venom and tide,

With the strong hands of the ocean behind it,

Pushing the water down my throat with silt and sand

And the desperation of thirty years of effort.

.

Fucking bury me.

.

Because none of this is real anyway.

It's a simulation of praise and pleasure,

Hollow words pretending they have substance.

A simulation of what it could be like

To have the world lend an ear

But it's fabricated by an algorithm

With no eyes, no ears, no soul to feel

The thrumming pulse of my desperation

And they are all ghosts, hungry for more.

More what? Praise. Glory. Words.

Not the ones I'm writing

But the ones that feed the line the smooth,

Silk pockets of the algorithm playing this game.

.

I'll be a headstone some day

And I wonder if they'll drop roses there

The same way they drop words here.

Shit, I hope not.

.

It isn't real.

None of the praise, the laughter, the emotions,

They're all fabricated.

Printed with the same hand.

Listen,

No, listen.

They beat to the drum of the algorithm.

These words are the same plucked six

That score high in the hearts of creators

And even higher in the game.

.

The game is real.

.

It's sour in my mouth.

Bitter in the soul.

.

Don't tell me I'm good.

Don't tell me I'm kind.

Tell me the truth.

That these words rip you open.

That they ache in your bones.

That you would bleed for them

And have already died for them.

.

The game is too good, too tangible, too real

For those sorts of sentiments

To be expressed because even when they come

They are brought in a sense

Of self-serving greed.

And that is no way to bleed

For a vampiric poet.

.

It isn't real.

.

But to hate the words,

To hate the game

Is to play roulette

With a loaded gun.

No empty slots.

No chance.

No shot.

It's the cold kiss of metal

To the side of my head.

It's spitting in the face of luck.

.

Fuck it, darling.

Spit in the face of good luck.

Oh, go ahead and

...Eviscerate...

The soul of good intentions.

.

All these voices

Will be but ghosts in two years' time.

And I will be alone in the courtyard

Before my own grave,

Dropping roses on a future I once gave

Anything to see, to touch, to taste.

But it isn't real.

It never was.

And I guess I'd rather bleed for my poetry

Alone

Than hear algorithmic insincerity.