towards poetic ends
Et Tu, Brute, Et Tu?
O fraudulent bumbling Brutus.
How you slither through the tall grass
With your sickle like fangs.
Biting upon the ankles of the starving artists —
Who still stand beneath your impostrous shadow.
Even the sweat from your brow
Was worked off the backs of others.
Whilst crooning stolen words and melodies
Without permission or penalty.
Leaving your muses with nothing more than a stammering whisper.
I see through your self-approving smug smirk —
Smeared across a mask of deception.
As your glamorous charm disappears up your nose
And drips down the back of your throat.
Where only extravagant lies form instead of the truth.
Such an impressive repertoire of robbery!
Written upon a reputation of narcissism.
A paragon of arrogance dressed up and presented
Like artificial snow on Christmas trees made of plastic — That I refuse to acknowledge or celebrate.
O how conceited your conjecture ensues!
As you walk upon the heads of floating cadavers
In order for you to reach the pantheon of fame.
Was it worth all of the concerted effort though—
When you found out that there was nothing more left to take?
I guess I’ll never know — Traitorous snake.
Matty Kopf 