Apathy

A poem by ​T. Schueler

this is number forty-five.
how many more will come before one is heard?
I’m just not feeling it today.
whatever I pen will be just as empty and worthless as I believe it to be
and today I believe that I’m shitty.
I believe that my art can’t transcend anymore
“maybe it never has.”
what I’m constantly told.
never directly.
they’re all too nice for that,
but I catch glimpses,
I see the stats,
I understand your implications.
they don’t have to tell me.
I know.
they won't hear me.
they’ll never even know that I can speak.

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This is ​T. Schueler's first publication.