I’m not a millennial so why have I started writing like one?
I asked myself that last night and now I realise;
every poem I seem to read is whining *******
about how the world seems to be out to get me,
please listen to me as I complain about being human!
Everywhere I look, existential angst riding high,
held above all else like some messianic dictatorship
demanding to be loved obediently without discrimination.
All you write is the same everyone else writes,
just fancier words, slight change in diction and emphasis,
but all the same pseudo-philosophical *******
peddled three centuries ago by a philosopher
whose name you could never quite remember.
When did originality make way for contrived nonsense?
No, no more. Ask yourself if writing helps
and answer with complete honesty as if no one can hear you.
It gave me the illusion that it helped, a friendly placebo
to place under my tongue to slowly dissolve.
If it helps, why do you keep writing, spewing trivialities
and wording them in a way to fool people into empathy?
Why don’t you write the story you always wanted to write
instead of writing for the notifications on your screen?
Why be a populist when you can be a fabulist?
Do not think for one second that you write for other people,
they don’t care about what you write,
they want to cling to a belief that what they feel is not human,
something far too profound to contemplate fully,
so they lap up every little word that conforms to their delusion.
Wake up, people. You are human, not sick.