Maybe you think I’m stupid
Maybe you laugh
Maybe you watch it as I write these works
and you think
“Dante, oh My God,
these are crap.”
And honestly you wouldn’t be wrong.
for a long time now I have been
eerily quiet,
A spiritual diet, so to speak
but I am unique;
Not to imply that I’m a freak
or that not everyone’s special
but my personal freckles
are the speckles of ink
I have left behind all of my life:
The dots and the blots
and the bottles and pipes
That help me make sense of this
this this this this
This thing
The breathing and eating,
and the sleeping and breeding,
just to die like an then unexist.
And so little Dante would write.
He would keep it to himself
jotting how he felt.
He never did it for the critics,
or the likes or the notes,
the exposure or globe,
but the reason he would write it
was because he liked it.
