A Little Raisin

"I am not quite sure what you mean by 'being on the brink of form."
"It doesn't exist, it is a mirage." -Jason Snyder

The proud and the naive pop reasons like raisins.
Raising the call of inspiration, a reaching treble
Which uses clauses from the book that nods and claws and routes
The crowd of loud patrons distilling verbs like "cousin"
And adjectives like "me" into a spoiled whine
"See a brother or mother who might have sprung from a
fictive and sequential fount", they will say.
"Hear a dip and dial, a trial by which we are saved", they will say.

Say, say, say it! Say that mirrors listen and microphones feel.

I was so sure

"Dig, dig deep, when you come and show me your shells and stones
I will smile. I will be moved by the wonder in your eyes.
I will assure you, correct you, cushion your momentary lapse of certainty." -Procheta

I can't write poetry anymore. I used to be so wise, uncovering the secrets of lies and rights of hands to be washed a thousand times. I can't write poetry anymore, it waxes fake and produced. Comparisons seem unauthentic and derived. Metaphors used and recycled. Only gibberish seems original...al;kdsjflkahga0w);akldsjfafa;lkdsjfakfcjasvn[oasfidhb[ ;aosdkjfgl alkdsfj;lakj
I can't write poetry anymore.