All the dreams left in the world
And not one penny to show for it
Slid on a moonbeam into the vacuum of space
The void of the eternal unrecognized
Page upon page he’s sought recognition
Dogs bark at him and children cry
As though it were his fault he’s a stranger
Bald men with little conscience call him “hippie”
And his own generation considers him a freak of high speak
No one looks to him for inspiration
Not even himself
Dry in thought and throat he parches
And slump-walks to wonder
All the pessimism left in the world
Thinking, “Perhaps I am like other poets”
For all he can see is the negativity
He used to write the dreams
He used to make it right again
He used to be sober
Now he’s the clown prince of English
The Lord of All Degradation
And all he can do is lick his stamps
Pray his malevolent, vindictive prayers
And dream.