The sound of your silent voice,
speaks loud from the page,
after all it is a real choice,
to fake and rage
on the road,
at the machine,
not required to be unrequited,
step closer and let me goad you
to get angry,
with what is said,
how words alive were made dead,
so they fall victim to gravity, depravity
then slip into the malaise,
of a hundred thousand other words,
and a thousand thousand poets who like birds
take flight, *****,
after they have written rhymed verse or worse,
prose,
it matters not,
none of this matters, it is rot,
crumbling from my fingers and onto a keyboard,
washing up on beaches around the world, the seashores,
what are poems for,
what poets do you adore,
when you read their words,
you see their hands, stained
with pitch black ink,
liken their one utile hand to a squid
gripping a pen, twisted tentacles,
that reach out a grab your heart and
your head, but how, most of them are dead,
or should be,
oh to be a modern poet,
write some words on paper with lines,
add a treble clef and you'll do fine,
if it is hard,
find a bard,
he will string the words, with
thread attach the notes, measure
what you said on a scale,
add it all up and there you have music theory,
explained by a math murderer