These simple answers no longer suffice;
too many journals heaving with wisdom
capsize and sink, prose lost presumed rhyming.
Impossible to rescue truth, belief;
one has to kop it, meeting their maker
whose inbox heaves, stacked, unread messages;
tablet’s cracked and broken, promises lost.

Blame clouds, long-expired user agreements
bridges under which trolls are rammed, ten deep’s
worth of angry, bitter deconstructions.
Nobody wants new, old, bitter poets
let these robots take your jobs, constructing
brilliant, nebulous nonsense stanzas
already favourited, countless times.


 

Written by Internet of Words

Published Writer, 53-ish / Still European / Trauma Survivor / Photos / Exercise / Bisexual / Chaotic Good / HUMAN SPORK / Mental Health / Daily Twitter Short Story / @ProperBard in Residence, My House / Shortlisted & Published Author / Original poems/fiction © IoW 2020