Forget this poetry
business and bullshit.
Words become stale
and brittle as bread
left on the counter, but
words have been around
a lot longer than a loaf
of rye. I imagine the thick
amber of syllables coating
me and hardening over years,
over centuries and tedious
millennia. I tire of ink
and the clicking of keys,
I'm tired of regurgitating
night after night
the people and faces, plants and places
I digest throughout the day.
What the hell do I care
to share with you anyway,
the things I want to consume?
Paper and ideas are limited
resources.