By Matt Syke
I could write about the leaves turning,
I could write about coming of age,
I could write about how I drink too much
(and how I really need to change),
I could write about all this nonsense,
And never truly say a thing.
It could be love lost or love found,
Some poetic thought that’s most profound.
I could say a million words that sound good when you yell them aloud
To some pathetic little slam crowd.
But no I think I’ll wither away, reprieve my dreams,
And hold my screams.
Because no one really cares about what you say.
Dress your words up with a nice scarf and a warm hat, and send them on their way.
They’ll be lost in the ocean of bulls**t,
And you’ll realize, every wannabe poet is the same.