Hello, I am a Hack
I ask that you sit and listen to my prose
And in return you may rub your phones,
Hurl cat calls, boos and hisses.

Because what I am doing is as old as humanity
They say the first poets were cave painters
Early people, who had nostalgia for,
I don't know what, perhaps the days
When the game was easier and
The climate more forgiving?

From cave paintings, began the steady hum
Of the oral word alongside the written script.
People have always carried this nostalgia,
This wish to pass on what they once new,
For future generations to never forget.

I attempt to emulate the antiquated,
From Blake to Chaucer.
My heroes are long past,
Hughes, Burroughs, Ginsberg and Jeffers.
Yet I seem to asphyxiate on my own voice,
my own words.
(Here it comes.....)

In a world of instant feeling,
In a world of self gratification,
In a world of desires, wants, and castles.
In a world that has really never changed.

Then why do I fear the loss of my voice?
Were any voices ever to be heard
when they first spoke?
I write and speak in hopes, that
five hundred years from now
Someone will come across my work,
And understand that that great hum,
Is always constant.