Whose They

Writing in free verse, and cracked knuckles on keyboards with letters composed to make words into poetry. "We love your work!" they say. "Oh my, your such a hopeless romantic." they say. "Poetry is your strong suit." they say. The pretty girls smile and recognize the words that flow of paper with ink black like a dark soul. They say that I have talent, that I was born to write, but they don't know where that inspiration comes from; they never know because they never ask. They just compliment and walk on... Writing in free verse, the blue poet hard at work, another poem to feed the audience's hunger for starving words, held close to their lips; lit cigarettes and beer bottles, while razorblades hold close to my wrists, and a loaded gun, one in the chamber, pointed to my temple. As, I sit and write another poem, I slowly look and wonder about those people, who sit and listen but don't hear. I sit and wonder about those people, those faces, those ways, each and every smile and sigh, every girl's tear and every man's silence- and for a moment I wonder deep in my head, as I click the hammer back, cock the pistol, pull the trigger... 'whose they?' ...and then I finish the poem, dotting those endless i's with endless, salty teardrops. 5/9/14