Poets are the Postal Service, that has long lost its raison d'etre,
Some consider them as the harbingers, but they are on the wrong trajectory.
In the age of instant messaging and couriers, they simply limp along,
They need to wake up from this slumber, they are on history's side that is wrong.
Poets are the new Ponzi scheme, they write for and read each other,
Each pushing the other in the community, to enlist another brother.
Outside of the lit bubble, everyone looks down on the clowns,
They need to get rid of the grand delusions, and settle for the hand-me-downs.
Poets are the Anna Hazare movement, that got hijacked and transformed,
If you can't sell a poetry book, defect to a different genre, get reformed.
Either remain true to your voice, or cop out to the market place,
Either way we lose a poet - either you are not read or lose your face.
Why do I call myself a poet, when my poems don't sell,
I enjoy waking people from the dead, can't you now tell!
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