the old poets

The old poets haunt me they taunt me from the shadows following every keystroke I type - they’re critical of phrases, they demand narrower themes and mock the very clichés they invented. I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences, how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love. I try and explain this Internet thing, how the more copious my writings, the more people it says are following me. How I really don’t want to sound paranoid but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone. . . Song for this: Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan