I do feel alone in my writing.
Like Emily
Like Vincent.
Also I feel my writing is for naught.
I am the poem in the night.
for some kid in Singapore.
My words are magnetic spots.
Nobody has a book.
My words are supported by 10 bucks to my host,
not by the world.
You see nobody put me on hard paper where I’ll be preserved.
I am the monks who make sand drawings
which are swept away.
I am the poem in the night.
If the kid in Singapore commented…that would be nice but
I’m still magnetic spots.
Not much different from real life
David Michael Jackson isn’t real
doesn’t exist.
Just ask Wiki or the Times.
