Sadness calls…

It’s sad that life’s a bitch and then you die.

It’s sad when there’s no time left to over compensate.

Yet it’s even more sad when poetry doesn’t pay the bills.

And a lot more sad, when poetry is diluted by hackneyed verbosity.

But do you know what’s even more sad than that? When someone calls you a starving artist and it sounds funny.

When eating raw carrots and preserving the last pair of underwear prolongs the bittersweet feeling of sadness, and you forget it’s easier to crumple those pages and start anew.

But the saddest thing of all, ladies with shaved legs and gentlemen with groomed mustaches, is when poetry becomes unnecessarily lengthy.

So wordy that it cannot touch a dying heart in desperate need of something.