trashspiration

No one gives a fuck about poetry
You can't eat it, or wear it, it ain't worth a dime
And that's true despite how meticulously
You craft every syllable into its line

Art exists because of the artists compulsions
Not because it has some great societal worth
But the feeling sounds make when you string them together
Has clawed at my brain since the moment of birth

They say to make sure that you do what you love
And that what you're best at is what you should be
But what I love is rhythm and alliteration
So I'm fairly sure they weren't talking to me.