it doesn’t take much to remind me how shit of a poet i am

just another pithy scribbler in a world of pedantic odes

i don’t have roses growing from grovelling lines

just thorns and patches of bare earth

what’s the point when you can read truly beautiful works and instead you shovel salt and silt looking for a pearl in the muddy river bottom

it all feels so meaningless when confronted by talent

carrying water in a wicker basket while dying of thirst

amounting to less than the ones and zeros you’re made of

another counterfeit in a carbon copy world