This is a poem about how my poetry sucks:
Maybe you were right
All along, about the world
Everything, even us
This is all there is
and humanity is not
capable of love
A dark spiral of ruthless hurtful cruelty
speeding the inevitable collapse of this meaningless planet
with no turning back.
Alone in a universe of empty friendships, skepticism
and an addiction to our own unhappiness.
So what if I'm afraid of you being right? It's not about you,
it's about my own lack of faith. About my ultimate realization
that IT'S not worth fighting for. The "beauty" isn't there,
there is no connection... what HAVE the stars done for us anyways?
A disconnect and ultimately a perfect loneliness in this
wretched pathetic conversation that spans from the end of childhood to the day I die.
So when does this become cliche?
Writing pointless diatribes about the downfall of our world
and the stupidity of mankind
What's so unique and
smart about me that I can
see what's clear as day
and write about my pain...
I'm so melodramatic
a broken-heart poem.