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Jun 2017
An HTTP on which we release poetry,
supposed to capture our deep, inner 'me'.
And you can sense this fret with which it is met;
the desperate actions of some for adulation to get.

It kinda is sad, when you all try to grab;
hustle and bustle with meaningless blab.
Nothing it means, I don't see why you're so keen-
No matter your words, you will never be king.

He's richer than you, much higher up too;
from his birth he had you beat, ever since you were new-
There's levels to this game, you must have the fame;
lest every word you write from your soul become lame.

No joke you shout loud, with fervour and proud,
but unless you are lucky, to this life you are bound;
To the medial mess, and all its distress,
you'll never look good, no matter your dress.
John Hawkins
Written by
John Hawkins  23/Ireland
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