Poets Starve

The Poer Poet by Carl Spitzweg


In a world where knowledge
is the new currency
poets starve.

We offer words -
thornless and long-stemmed
hoping for them to bloom within you.

They thirst, and desiccate
unless you nourish them
so that they might thrive into circumference.

Poverty is a poem
that dies just after
you decide not to read it.

And we bleed for each one,
willing to pay the price
for those few pressed into the book of your life.

If you knew what I meant
before you read what I wrote
you have doomed me to dust.

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