Imagine being invited to a poets party. 

A room juxtaposed with the extremes. 

Extroverts who claim to be introverts talking to the true introverts who stop listening once they realize it’s really about them and not “me” 

Introverts, who might have a chance to be extroverts, except their politeness stops them from interrupting the so called introvert who might just be nervous because silence is lonelier than weather. 

One slandering her dad speaking to another uplifting his mom,

A room full of loners,




And the hip cool who learned how to cypher truth with alliteration and imagery enough to call it fact out of subjectivity. 


With brevity. 

Because in one day I read that no one can make a living out of poetry,

Yet someone’s making a couple hundred an hour,

And so many do it,

Yet no one can just do it,

While feeling full

Without going insane. 

So we should imagine what could happen if we find ourselves in a room full of poets, 

Young, old, male, shemale, female

Stale, pale, whale-like with -iteness, elevated, tortured, wired, fired….

(Keep imagining)


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