I wish to promulgate that poetry is not dead.
But the style... each breath is taken to be lost in an enchantment of idealist fallacies.
The generation of dreamers has faded into dark steep ponds, while the awakened and depraved-
They have met their peak(s) within the satisfactions of release which derive from expired ink.
This tongue, swollen and stolen in silence
Silence, a token for prize.
Silence, a superficial demise.
We're told to never agonize what can't be analyzed- but this invisible truth loves to brutalize.
Such irony and confinement at it's finest.
Words paved in that silence
We fear judgement but worship impropriety.
Words- temporarily paved in tranquility as I fear societal astuteness but worship impropriety.
This is all you.
Taking the idea of youth, insurrection, and connection to pronounce a new notion.
Devoted to adolescence conceived in lies, the artifice on the rise, and a disguise you criticize.
We don’t get the butterflies from such matters.
I get the moths that are stuck in shattered fragments of time.
The past I use my tips to inscribe it’s truth in between thin narrow lines.
The present you use to benefit my angst and contempt.
The future we use to see what might never happen.
An advocate for providence