Internal screaming translated to something a bit prettier

Anymore

No one reads poetry anymore.

They say to the kids whose shelves are filled with wonder

The books will not sell.

They say to the poets known by name

The ideas are too fanciful.

They say as the stars in people's eyes die of hunger

Your ideas are not good.

They are my own thoughts now.

You will never finish your work.

You will never make it.

You will fail.

You will not achieve your dreams.

These are my thoughts now.

If no one reads poetry anymore...

Then what are those books doing next to my bed?