The truest poet ever plays at softly sentimental,
spinning sad songs for tear drops, love lost, and shock value,
settles for whoever
like he knows inside that he’s just selling lies to strangers,
squares it with his god that
believing him is their choice.
Still he spins his stories, sobbing, spittle flying,
crying so you know he means it--
reminiscing artfully about when they were authentic
while looking for a remedy for happiness;
sadness sells too well and boring folks
love a tearful story over dinner as proof
they still feel anything.
And in fifty years or so no one will care about him
but there’s going to be, like, plenty of replacements
who never heard his name.