I wanted to write, but my pen wouldn't work for me.
So I chose to bloodlet, droplet at a time, and scribble
On the flesh of trees crushed to pulp that someone somewhere
Dyed white, wondering dully if people would notice
The blood. Or the sweat. Or the tears.

I wanted to be great, but my pathos was not enough.
I needed the tragedy. I needed the hope. I ached
For the existential horror of a living nightmare.
Not for the pain, you understand, but the prize
Of being misremembered by ignorant schoolboys only
To be swiftly corrected - because geniuses are geniuses
Even when they're sick, or only lonely. Or so they say.
No one remembers the boy who Kant cry Wolf, after all.

I wanted to be heard. I think that's the truth, at any rate,
But maybe I've forgotten what it is like to hear
The sound of my own voice, drowned in a sea of so many other
Ones. But paper has no ears, and my pen has lost its voice.
Will this computer be any different?

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