No Matter What (Poetic Poverty #2)

No matter what
You work your ass off for ten years
and then you’re forced to accept Watts…
So you do
and then
they come for you.

You try to do the right thing,
And you walk in the woods
and then they come for you.

You burn your eyes with words
until you’re nothing,
and then they come for you.

You stay up and lose yourself
and then
you’re ageing within the last years of youth
You pull all-nighters four nights a week
You write millions of perfect words
and they never
read anything
but one

They talk sarcastically to you
You go back into the woods
You walk out of the woods covered in snow
Cold and happy, and they talk…
as if you don’t hear them.

And you don’t care
but you live for something
or so you’ve decided
and the world has decided
this is
what you do…
this is
what you are.

You’ll either fail or accept
there is no failure
which is both true and not true
that is
if you want to be happy in America
because without money you’re just an intelligent orphan spawned by experimental marketing.

Those that destroyed their own profession tell you how to keep it alive, and you try to hold back words that knife through your mind, a mind that broke free from the syndrome
but now asks to plug back in
for health reasons.
There are evil doctors who control sickness like evil bastards. That’s how they control the art of

They ask you to conform,
they cheer for you and say they will pray for you
when they know it’s too late for them to dream
this young.

And back and forth
You try to go back,
but still,
they come for you.

You fight for the counterculture and the people in your family,
for the conservative and the religious and the not,
for the liberals and the radicals,
for every color of skin and political ideology;
you fight for nature and you fight for the publishers
and the farmers,
for the animals,
the elders
and above all else, below there’s
and a home,
for the human,
but even when you’re a smiling earthworm
they come for you.

It could be true
That the old gave up the will to teach,
And they want to be young forever,
and then they blame the young for trying,
as if they’re your parents,
when they weren’t even parents
to their own children.

They never hold the door for you,
and even when you help them,
they still come for you.

They don’t even try to understand you.
They’ve forgotten about the recession
and the college graduates
still underemployed.
And They talk shit about each other
all day long.

And it could turn out
That you are their failure or even their blind eye,
but really to them
none of this matters.
It’s a game,
makes them feel awkward when it’s only about life,
and they never ask a question.
They never say anything at all.
It’s all nonsense.
It’s all the same.
You are born,
and then,
they come for you.

What happened to the writers that had a voice, for something?
So many critics that don’t have a clue
about writing and the world,
two things
they’ve already burned and
sucked dry.

Even when it’s burning,
they come for you.

And you need sleep.
You write these words of anger.
You could delete.
You should.
You won’t.
You can’t.
Not now.
It doesn’t matter.
Because they will still come for you.

And you still could…
Not too old
No, not yet
You could shut up,
like they want,
but why?
When regardless of what you say,
they will still come for you,
until you’re dead.

poetic poverty #1

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