Depressed are my poets because they lack the marketable skills of my singer-songwriter friends who, though they are still poets, at least can play in a band or be staff writer at some boring record label.
You know the place, where good art goes to die. It’s stripped and beaten, forced into some man’s pocket book, which consequently gets shoved into the pocket of his sports coat.
But even the poet doesn’t get such awful treatment. No, the poet puts out a few lines to be read by who? No one. That’s who. Just a few other lonely writers on a forum - that’s who’s interested in poetry these days.