Written by: Ph.d Volo Von Wolfenstein

It wasn't what we wrote; 
that which was startling, or true,
or even the stark cynical twist
which grasped at the neck so early,
but the fact that deep below
was the cold pathetic marrow
that ached and ached and we
felt no shame in our therapy-
writing page after page 
of neurotic fireworks,
and very few,
but the most low and dying
really knew
and felt
The Grime,
that slime and slithering evil
of despair and medicated happiness,
our poetic moments-
that which we could bare,
'was', and 'is' why
we will never be loved.