A Poet's Last Stand

I am a poet.
But sometimes I wish…
That I wasn't
My words can't keep me warm at night and despite how many I write my poems will never be able to turn into the currency I need to survive
It's like you fall further in dept the longer you stay alive
So what's the point of living
of creating poetry when there are no job openings for word tacticians
No one really cares to hear the song of a poet beat through the rhythm of their words,
I need money,
Not poetry or reflection
Cause poetry don't pay bills
And reflection is only good when used to remember which creditor you need to strike deals with just to keep food on the table
I change lives on this stage by speaking to souls solemnly seeking to be saved
But yet it's your psychiatrist you pay to sit in silence
Ain't that ironic
You rather feed the silence and allow it burn, and starve the truth,
The solution,
I mean the poet, cause face it
Though I may be speaking to you in a manner that touches your soul
You would much rather spend your money on Lil' Wayne's Cd than one featuring me
This ritual is old, cause if I had dollar for every time some one comes up and tells me
"I love your work"
but yet my chap book remains unsold then I would have enough to feed every starving third world country including the one that exists in my home
And I know my dreams don't pay the light bills but
If I had a giant for every broke poet in the world then i would have an army big enough to put an end to activity in all war zones, return soldiers to their homes, and give the billions of dollars wasted on so called peace wars to every poet that has been denied a job because they were not able to hold their tongue, every poet who doesn't get the fame of people who get paid for making songs about girls with "donk"
every poet who's had his light's turned off
Cause poetry just ain't currency
But it should be
Cause I've heard poems that can make you see God quicker than any green piece of paper with His name on it
I rather pay a poet for doing something that frees his soul then pay to have something made to contain him
And they say a mind is a horrible thing to waste
But you tell me you how a poet can get his word out if bars are covering his face
And the people telling him to speak are the same ones that put his noose in place
Cause sometimes even poets won't support poets
Unless you giving it to them for free
And it's funny to me
Though we are all connected by this strange thing called poetry
Secretly, we want each other to fail,
just so we can succeed in getting our own hands green
we are all paper pushers
we all wish we were able to push paper into our pockets by the means of pushing words on to paper
See, I leave my life on stages
And I realize now that I get paid every time my feet grace a stage
My job is to breath realization into color blind minds
Through the colorful pictures I paint on to empty lines
And your job is to pay me with your attention
Your love and your affection
Cause if I can get just one genuine Thank You
Letting me know that I touched at least one of you
Then you've paid me enough