To all writers,
I am an archaic judge of your poetry
balancing thy heart in the depths of my envy
Not envious of the talent you possess
I am a walking reincarnation of the papers you tore.
I am often enraged at your passing gimmicks.
The blatant disrespect remotely surprises me too,
You carve your fervent poetry in my deep roots,
and with one syllable mistake, throw me in the rubble.
But it is not just my voice calling out to you.
It is our voices as we are littered all around you.
The trash can at the other end of the room sighs too,
You could’ve given us a respectful burial, at the very least.
The words you write aren’t always yours
Inebriation is your only friend to get through.
You weep when you string a few incoherent words,
then throw away the sheet tinted with your stained sorrow.
I am not calling you out as you would think,
I am merely calling you an emotional wreck.
I might seem a little bitter now; In my defense,
there wasn’t enough sugar in my coffee, to begin with
But let me wrap up my note as soon as possible.
I find it improbable that you’d acknowledge me anyways.
I know that I am just a mere draft,
But could you please not throw me in the damn rubble?
That sheet you crumbled and threw away