Walt Whitman

Won't be no dog with a grey muzzle

The brightest end to the dimmest struggle

A flare gun in the mouth remains unseen

For every double-spaced 12 point new roman

You are nothing more than moaning

A lonely writing notes app poetry

They were once friends, good friends

Perhaps they thought better were to come,

But they were still good friends

And when, like all, they drifted apart

They never lost their mutual respect

So when one watched the other run at track meets,

Each saw a master of oneself

A hero of all his being

A half-breed in his light boots

No more, no less

In the end this is nothing, this is nothing new

You're on your bed or on your phone

The sludge has raptured you

And you should call her

Oh why ain't you called her?

She saved your life and you haven't called her

You're not Walt Whitman