poetry is meaningless
words are just the same
untouchable
by our own experiences
ungraced by that of others
there is an
infinite beauty
in the endless possibilities
but its nothing real
instead their own world
revolving
evolving
dissolving
into new connotations
to impact someone else
never less applicable
never more knowing
"tragically" unfeeling

words

they say anything you want
and tell them-
the audience,
what they need.
its not desire
for self exploration
they're looking for
Then they would write
instead,
they depend on you
the "poet"
to describe them
to tell them who they are
and how they feel
since beyond you-
it's a mystery
their mirrors are broken
covered in hairspray and cheap perfume
with all those moments of regret
clinging to the glass in faded memories
frosting it just enough
that nothing is clear
so its safe
and then
when you tell them
when you use these illusive words
to bring enlightenment
into everything they are
and ever will be
with a general abstract
they can relate to
they get the option
of becoming a connoisseur.
of speaking as though they know
because somehow its so familiar.
(Like the days at their granparents house
back when they were a child)
but because they know
even vaguely,
you've given them the right to rejection
to denial
and self righteousness
to civilized critiquing
when really
they're just missing the point
and honestly
im not angry enough to care
maybe later
but right now-
i just want the words
to speak
so that i
dont have
to say anything