Cut, Clink, Bleed
I cut myself and bleed for your pennies.
I have no shame.
I'll share my trauma.
I'll give you my pain, my pleasure, my dignity.
Poems are a worthless waste of time.
No one pays for them.
I wanted to tell stories.
Cut. Clink. Bleed
To create wonder and make people happy.
Cut. Clink. Cut. Clink.
But happiness is in a grave somewhere near El Paso.
And wonder?
They took the first flight out.
Cut. Clink. Bleed.
And now you're here with me.
The mediocre poet.
I pretty myself up.
Stand on the digital street corner.
Hoping you will throw pennies.
I cut myself with my shiny razor.
It's a terrible, beautiful thing.
The only beauty left in this tired old world.
We are all dying flowers in a neglected garden.
Cut. Clink. Cut. Clink.
Beauty fades slowly.
But it fades.
50 long years of struggle.
Culminates in this rite of the damned.
Cut. Clink. Bleed.
Will my suffering earn a crust of bread and a small room?
Will I sleep rough?
Will I be safe?
Cut. Clink. Bleed.
Daylight comes.
I stare at the aged reflection in a store window.
God what was I before this?
Cut. Clink. Bleed.