the blue glare that drives you crazy is almost welcome now;

but only when you must get something down

to show the usernames you've come to trust

in almost anonymous Neoland.

In that particular place,

you can stretch your babybat wings and fly off

to find someone else with ink running through their veins.

there you found a few fingers to

grasp in your tiny beginners hand;

one aged with meter and syllable count and all that boring stuff.

someone who is also a dancing monkey for their own words

whom drew your blade
and slipped that lock
let light fall again
in the dark
where I pushed thoughts
like a rock

"whadda yah want from me"
(how I was surly and mean)
and in the same breath
would comb your hair
and through rain run
to get you a share
of this and that

"Its a trick" I spoke
that many use to buy your
trust
be always wary of the ruse
when they turn
and your blade has grown rust

"Nothing but window dressing for a soul.",
Buk says, dropping his pants for the crowd.

The crowd roars. Some sit with an embarrassed look
on their faces. Some
are poker-faced, showing no hands. Some look
like the already dead, turning away.

"You can't hide yourself in poems, you can't
buy yourself a hot-assed seat in the Promised Land.

You've got to see the elephant for what it is.

You've got to....."

But why is it that now,
More guys are moving on to epics?

Nothing else to do perhaps.
So many,won't read
But guys will continue to say,
Well done man,
nay woman
and
keep your spirits high …
So that Neopoet’s never die,
Nor say the obnoxious word, die,
Except dye
To say to you
Do it, to your balding
graying hair
Hope you do...