Oh the trials of the modern poet
To feel unworthy of the people who read your words
To scream so silently for someone to stop long enough to read
In an age where the enemy is the mind
Weep for the lives of the modern poet
Fragments of lines jot down on scraps of paper
The margins of notebooks
The edges of assignments
No longer
Pages of notes at the touch of button
The labor is no longer physical
But you fight for your own attention instead
Writing broken stanzas with soapy hands scarred from knives
Chipped nails, a sopping shirt, the fryer boiling away
Harsh rap, breaking shouts, "walking in!"
Oh, the anguish of a modern poet
Speaking ancient tongues
Trying so desperately
To be understood in an art long forgotten
To unmake the muddled mind
To see yourself
In all the chaos
Is it impossible?
Mourn in the loss of the modern poet
Who can speak of bloodshed, most in metaphor
Pain endured most of minds
And the collective consciousness of this modern era
Both a blessing
And a curse
Who feels like the modern poet?
In age where poets come and go
But true of heart, who loves as the poet loves?
Feels as the poet feels?
Thinks like the poet does think?
Who can speak the same as the modern poet?
Who could bear the hurt?
But another?
Who is capable of consuming the love of the modern poet, but one whose pain is as palpable as their love?
Listen.
Listen to the words of a modern poet
Who else can speak so presently of the past?
YOU ARE READING
After (2024)
Historia CortaIt's a story about recovering from depression. My journey to stay happy after a long couple years. I write mostly poetry. If you want to read more about my struggles click my profile, I have one published story detailing my 2023 year. It's still har...
