Doomed to become mere words

Thousands and thousands of arty nilpotent amounding.

The sum of the frame is equal to the blog of the phone.

Poetry will not like you.

You shake my dreams.

If I made my poems for others unseen and unborn I would slowly get pen to paper.

Slowly I would be disgraced, a scouring eagle-wheel.

There is nothing more to say and the beautiful bridges connecting them all.

I imagine what I see and then I tack a message to that void.

I will grief you by the hair in the dalls of hack.

I don't remember. Was I probing or narrowing?

First reaction best reaction.

It's the end of the world as Michael Stipe knows it.

I am pro-Sophia and con-"Doomed To Become Mere Words".