Perhaps one day I will write something substantial. Maybe some people(hopefully institutionally recognized ones) will praise me. Then I will sit back, and realize I have accomplished nothing. My legacy will only be blotters on a page, of a language that will most likely be widely unrecognizable in the distant future that they seek to penetrate.
How vain is this cathartic act?
Why do I pose questions of my own contemplation,
if not to only further confound those kind enough to take time out of their day to read them?
Who the fuck reads anymore anyway?
Poetry has become a marginalized section of bookstores and libraries
where introverts hide away, where a canonical selection of literature remains,
forever.
Kiss my ass if you don't think I'm clever.
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