Turbulent Times The Dead Poet 2

Turbulent Times The Dead Poet 2

They praise your pain

when you’re buried and gone,

frame your words

like you lived it all wrong.

No coins for the hungry

while breathing and broke,

but they quote your sorrow

like a sacred joke.

They sell your name

when your voice is still—

a ghost on paper

they package and bill.

So write it now,

bleed ink, don’t beg—

the poet gets paid

with a toe tag and a peg.