Prime Time

When I was younger,

I mistook

passion for talent

and thought poems

should always be free-verse because

          oh my god true poetry could never be contained or commercialized in these wild buck's eyes.



Childish.

Didn't know I was only

ranting and raving

until the tears stopped

and so did the wordstream.

Wasn't I better at this?

An untamed soul?

The next mark in the written world!



Next thing I know

I'm writing myself

into corners like this;

trying to recall

the way I scribbled

on scraped knees,

like if the disease

would never stop feeding me.



Oh I was the true outpour

of my generation!

I adored the sensation

of having great text!

But the next in line

is bumping me out,

saying,

       "Hey man, you're past your prime."

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