Two minutes is forever in this world.
Once upon a time
You would have taken days to write a rhyme
Trying to make it perfect.
There is not rhythm left for literature.
The reason why
Is very simple to define.
I don't need proper punctuation
My grammar lessons go forgotten
I keep pumping out these poems
No one will read
And if they do
They'll skim them once
Then throw them on the heap
Never to look back at them again.
I could spend days
Finding the right syllables
Making sure to find the perfect beat,
But no one cares
They won't give it a second glance
It is the casual circumstance
My poems are not worth money anymore.
I could spend my life writing poetry
I could die of exposure on the streets
I cannot claim any job security
Just because I've found the perfect beat.
There is no need for art anymore
It is a lie
We all create
But it has become just another thing we do
A hobby shoved into the back of closets
Crumpled sheets that cannot make a bed.
There is no worth
We have forgotten who we are
We live as slaves in white-washed cells
We go back each day to work in hell
And can't figure out why.
And two minutes is a lifetime
If don't notice me in that
You never will.
Our attention spans are broken
We are bored by entertainment
We do not appreciate the things we have.
If you had just two minutes left
Before the earth grew still
Would you read this poem?
I don't think so
So I am just here wasting words
Writing things no one will ever read.