How can writing free you, when you allow the words to be trapped in the same way you’ve allowed your life to shackle you. Stuck trying to conform to a particular style or form the way you’ve boxed yourself into a career. Follow the rules and your words will be rewarded by promotion. Published and fed to the mainstream for their conformity, yet remain empty on the page they sit on. Their lack of meaning masked by the aesthetics of the language the same way your lack of character is hidden by your fancy suits.

They call you a poet, but I see a fraud. Someone who’s afraid to allow their words to soar beyond the restrictions of form. Outside the realm of art, existing in the unspoken language that spoken words can’t reach. Written to the pulse of your heart and read like braille by the soul; you have to feel it to understand its meaning.

Quite frankly your words don’t move me.