junkyard poetry

This is where inspiration goes to die
we all perform the last rites
in between the mingling crowd
and the many glasses of wine

This is a cemetery for creativity
and the slow death of ideas.
We mold ourself into black shirts and converse
to prove we are rebellious enough to fit in

This is where our ambition
slaughters our inspiration.
This is what we hate to love
and where we strive to belong.


---


We struggle along
this path we claim chose us
when really we stumbled upontin
and claim to have chosen

We huff and we puff
to appear almost capable
we huff and we puff
and pretend we're not exchangable


--

Fuck all Art
(with a capital A)
snaring me
(and I let it)
to contempt myself
(while still proud if fitting in)
Fuck the fact
(and I guess that's Fuck and Fact
with a capital F)
that I still love T. S. Eliot