J.J. Campbell

a desperate act for the approval of strangers


it’s a blank page


words flying by

at a million miles

per hour


the average person

can’t do this shit


you then think of

all the bad poetry

out there


the average people

are doing it


you are not special


you were not blessed

with any rare talent


it’s all a trick


smoke and mirrors


that’s why you can’t

make enough to call

it a profession


it’s a hobby


a desperate act for the

approval of strangers


a lonely voice in a

hallway with no echo


an old dirt road where

all the old poets go

to die


look at the scars

and know it’s time



even you deserve to be loved


sometimes it’s catharsis

and sometimes it’s just

a good shit that removes

everything but the brain


a passing thunderstorm

and the bold belief that

even you deserve to

be loved


your father never had

the time to teach you

about fools, dreamers

and the need for a few

dark souls to dig ditches

and graves


all the young girls in the

houses around here are

growing up so fast


you’ll probably be in a

different world by the

time they start exploring

the dirty parts of their



it’s a faint taste of blood


it’s another shooting on

the west side of town


all the old lovers have

moved on years ago


one of these days


you might get around

to it


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