a poem for the sulk of how little poems really are

some say
poetry is revolutionary
that it rose and built nations
after the french revolution
the romantics hoped for a bitter Europe
and a bitter Europe there was
after WW1
the realists
in colliding verses
calling out for a better world
and a better world
there was.
now
the arabs
I hear no poetry.
me
my manufactured winter
and 'bon iver'
and the antler's
'hospic'
sad literature
I cant read fast
 enough
I cant drop out of
 highschool
I cant drive
all the way to russia
poetry will not
pave the road
fuel the car
stop
my mothers tears
feed me
poetry feeds nothing
and
no one.