Birds in Jersey

Popularity is momentary

fleeting like one night stand bloggers

who think love is alive in dead poets.

it takes more than likes

to make a poem,

it takes more than time

to get to know the essence of another

it feels like you misinterpret my meanings

I appreciate the poem

more than the person,

this fault I have is

the writer’s curse.

Don’t ask me why I love you,

just let me 

be the one who does

the most with the least.

I do not care for the designer

of your ideologies

or long forgotten philosophies

the Ancients were wise

for their time and place 

but now mass media has stabbed us

bled us our rights

to protect ourselves.

I still hold on tight

to privacy

and poetry.

I deconstruct others

and hate myself for it

land on sunsets and take pictures

like a child.

I will never grow up

into a true adult

no matter how I fool the world

and it means nothing to me

if fifty people buy my book

or two-hundred and fifty.

At least I touched one person

with my words

and that person is You.

Let the birds bee

like the artist 

you let go of

long ago

in another lifetime.


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