What? (A peice of writing to be considerd a poem, story, or rant and everything else in between)

Look where I am now.

I tried to be a poet of the Beat Generation.

Till Allen set me straight.

What now?

What now that my typewriters out of ribbon?

What now that my pen is out of ink?

And my mounting sea of paper starts to shrink?

Where will I go then?

What do I do when I get to the end of the road?

Who will I look up to when my poet dies?

When Bobby is gone?

I stare at the wall in horrible frustration trying to picture life with out his words coming threw my speaker soft and strong; like a sewing needle hitting the tile floor.

They'll still be there.

But he won't be around to read them.

That's life isn't it?

People love you more when you're dead.

People realize you're genius when you can't produce anymore of it because you're laying in some hole in the ground or a ditch. They don't want you back though. They say how grate you are but secertly they, the masses, are glad your ideas of change are out of there heads... because they are afraid.

Afraid that if you are still alive you can cause more harm; more change.

My father once said that there isn't a grate need for writers these days. He was wrong. They always need writer's who will write not for artistic reality or truth but they write what they are told. There are needs for writers... just not poets.

No. No. We poet's live in secret society's of our minds. Everyone says because I am a girl that I therefore am labeled to write poems of the feminist. "They need creative inspiration!" Fuck that! I write what I feel. Not for the female masses so they can preach some fat middle age women wine drinking self empowerment bitch fest. All genders are wrong.

When Bobby dies my pen will die, too. I know it. I just know it.

What am I gonna' do when I'm lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Easter time, too?

All those hopes and dreams I've had sense little-girl-hood will be exposed all at once for everyone to see. It all boils down to the question that everyone has asked a million times when they lay akwake at night all pent up from there own lonliness.

What do I do now?