Poem poem poem poem.

Poem.

[Tick tock]

Hmmmmmmmmmmm.

Oh whatever shall I write?

Oh however shall I express my very essence in such a way that creatively defies establishment while also touching the hearts and minds of my readers?

Oh whyever am I typing this?

I’m no poet.

I’ve about as much chance to win as the crumbs and grimes crusting the border upholstery of the booth upon which I now impress a shapely (I like to think) bun-print.

Everyone’s voices now being heard on the internet; more books being published each year than in all of history to date. How will my voice ever stand out.

Oh whatever.

Here I am

Sitting in this not particularly indie café

Eating my not particularly unique or profound breakfast burrito at night

Engulfed by the dull murmur of overplayed songs and small talk of couples young and old peppered about the room.

For what?

For MAYBE $1,000.

Dead Presidents.

Counterfeiting real value.

A pursuit so hollow I am bound to follow.

Cheddar…Dough.

Hey, those are in my burritough!

[NOTE: Erase pun]

But I need that cash-money.

Phenotypically white, and also middle-class: the dynamic duo.

Perfect for needing scholarships and finding none.

But hey, here’s an opportunity. There’s one over there, too. For a Jewish orphan interested in aeronautical engineering. I suppose she needs it more than me, anyway…

I like to think I’m a progressive guy, who supports making college more affordable for minorities.

But now I, plagued by the success of my forbears, need their fireplace kindling, too.

So the fate of massive student debt teeters on the edge of a knife, swaying to and fro with winds blown by special interest groups offering money for doing what they value.

64 a year...

 No offense, of course.

I like poetry, don’t get me wrong.

I just don’t write it, unless it’s over text

For a maiden fair

On a cold winter’s night of homework past twelve,

Who likes shitty poetry.

Although, I guess much of poetry was written to women anyway…

Again, whatever.

I need the money and it’s 9 of the clock and it’s raining outside and the fluorescent overhead  lights of Luci’s Healthy Marketpalce are going off one by one as management attempts to dislodge the lingering customers who haven’t bought anything in hours.

I had fun writing this, so I guess if I don’t win that’s okay. I’m just bad at poetry. Hopefully in some meta way that makes me flawless?