Young Writers Society

I find that my life has been lost – all I recorded
on sad scraps of hotel paper
has found its home under Oxford-clad feet:
between the rich and the rain-drenched pavement.
I was better off posting stickers and writing on
dollar bills. Maybe they’re taken out of circulation,
but at least they’ve sat among half a dozen great presidents
and toured the grandest city’s subways.

In living no life, I found a fiber optic one already waiting for me.
and here was the only home my text could reside in,
with pixels and under formats and fonts.
But now that I’ve broken out of cell 01010110,
the world is my canvas.
As majestic as that sounds, there is no paint that withstands rain,
there is no hand to turn the pages of my memories,
and there is no ear attuned to the songs I sing
in my unsettled solitude.

I have taught myself to eat less,
value hours alone and to turn off my phone.
I promise, young poets, next time I get the opportunity, I’m risking
cell block 01010110 for the chance to
carve capitalism into a brick wall
for all the cavemen to read in ten thousand years.