Talk with Dead -Beat-Poets.

Life is becoming words, Or words life  
An ugly truth.  
Poetry is no answer
But you can talk with dead-beats.
They talk of the same confusion and question  
But silence shuts us.  
The emptiness connects us.  
Listen them talk of the same emptiness filled with their own wanderings, epiphany, sadness, joy and everything.  
Though I really don't know anything.  
Words are hopeless for an unsure egoist, Mr.Creeley told me.  
So where are my hopes?  
Do you have it for me?  
The more I write, the more I spit bull-shit.  
Wish it was some mad blues all full of mystical mourn, piercing souls.