I am the
poet who speaks in jumbled rhyme.
I awe you with my greatness,
Metaphors shining their shielded truths at your eyes,
But I seem great only because you do not understand me.
I talk in circles, saying nothing,
Or something only I understand.
I am the tattered prophet,
Standing on the Great Rock,
Speaking through my spittle to the multitude:
They listen but do not understand,
For these are the ramblings of a madman.
My words seem to hold great power
And seem to hold great truths
But they are nothing:
Only empty vessels, decorated brightly.
Read my words if you will,
But they will only leave you confused and hollow:
Behind the neon sign exists a wasteland.