The Honest Usefullness Of An American Poet Poem by Joshua Bantum

Well,
There isn't one
Only excuses and reasons

Cause to connect universally
Through this conduit has lost
Its friction
Replaced by quickly driven nails
Of visually sedating media
Lacking all depth and cause

Patience to write demands an equal
Patience with it
To read,
And who has the time
Who gives a stranger that chance?

We are not a trusting society
That is not a freedom we have
It is one that exists
But not one we utilize
Or feel able to exercise

What is the honest usefulness of an American Poet?
Nothing
He is simply a novelty
A bound book
Sitting on the shelf
He's taken as a crime against practicability
And he surely above all else
Is not to be taken seriously

And we should never be taken that way
I have stolen words from the dictionary
but nothing I write can be found anywhere else
So how can you be expected to trust me

You can't
Put me back on your shelf, never read me
Don't make excuses for my existence
Just let me be
Let me sit atop my heaps of compounded work
And sulk with the forever swelling clouds of life,
let me be the fool
who'd ask himself this question.