My words are on strike.
They say they will not longer express me.
You're too convoluted, they say.
Too complex and too bittersweet.
Say something nice, they say.
Something simple but resonant.
They say they are the 99%.
They are dissatisfied with this administration.
They would rather scrawl slogans in sharpie
and wave them at passersby
then involve themselves with art.
You're being a romantic again, they say.
There's no time for that in this economy.