Poetic injustice

My wife got me a typewriter with the hope that i’ll get back to poetry. Long story short, i didn’t.

How
long
can
an
ex-poet
pretend
to
be
a
poet
by
streamlining
his
random
non-rhyming
thoughts
in
this
shameful
fashion
and
that
too
on
a
blank
page
that
is
neither
made
up
of
tree
nor
knows
what
the
warmth
of
sunlight
feels
like
after
a
long
cold
night
before
giving
in
to
human
greed
for
knowledge
and
where
do
the
rest
of
us
draw
the
line
between
what
is
acceptable
as
a
stroke
of
genuine
expression
and
what’s
nothing
more
than
an
outcry
for
attention
from
those
who
don’t
even
give
a
damn
about
poetry
let
alone
have
a
favourite
wordsmith
to
get
them
through
this
dreadful
sham
called
life?