dear you,

you never listen to me anymore.
you're so irritating i feel crushed under the wheels of your hypocrisy.
try writing your fiction again, go on, i dare you

you'll get a sentance in and realise it's impossible.

stop trying to immerse yourself in Robert De Niro films,
you'll never shoot the mayor
you'll never grow a mohawk
you'll never be Johnny Boy
because you couldn't pull off a hat like that.

guess what?
nobody LIKES Sam Cooke anymore,
it's just you!

can't you feel
your progress and will power trickling away from you
as you sit around and waste your time
because that's really the only thing
you'll ever be an expert on.

your angry letters and poems and big scribbled rants
actually don't
constitute
"work".

contrary to your arrogant desires,
AS English students will not one day be spending money
on the collected works
of You.

crowding round a table with their pens
and scrawling annotations next to your clever linguistic techniques,
you twat.

i know, i know,
those little notes mean so much right now
one day you'll watch the way your pen was so desperate against that cheap paper
and want to vomit on your own messy words.

you're not a spoken word artist
just because a few of your friends have heard your blathering rhymes

you're not a poet.
you're not a writer.

you're just me.

and i'm you.

and it'd be nice if we could get along for once, alex.