The empty cup is being dripped dry by their tide,
who are unwilling to join and pitch into the buffet,
every time someone is let way down deep inside,
they get as hard as they can and then run away.
The world around is absent of someone gone to be,
a dead beat poet with vague reason to really write,
not everyone can be as famously unpopular as me,
freakishly shy and never willing to get in too a fight.
The broken dreams awake with dawn as a nightmare,
it’s time to decide to run away or stay and fight with sin,
seeking something like an epiphenomenon that is aware,
as a corpse draped in a wretched sack of pseudo live skin.
dead beat poet 