The Rain Poets

The Rain Poets


It seems that all the rain poets

Are weeping again tonight,

In words, that rain down

In buckets.

The living, once more pretending

To be the dead, the waiting and

Wanting of it, just above their heads

Like false prophets.

The art of

Voices & rants

As all of the dark clouds gather

And they ask, demand

Why ME?

Why US?




As their world is ending once again

As their world is in pain in the

Black black black abyss of the DARK DARK NIGHT

of Apocalypse again and again

And of themselves.

In a world that is a mess

In a world that suffers war

And in a world that is slowly dying, starving and well


As they read their poetry brought to life by an attitude

That attempts living where shock value incurs some glimmer of truth at all.


The rain poets are not reading a

poem or writing a poem about that,

The rain poets are too busy writing

What their own selfish little lives are all about,

The whining & the bitching and the


Or I’m FAT, life is so unfair & no one wants to

Have sex & I can’t find the right pair of pants

That fit!

Yes, the rain poets are all weeping again

Up unto the masses & unto the general consensus,

Rhyme it : And keep the tragic flowing,

Slam It : And shock again whats been shocked so many times before

Oh ever so popular (as usual)

Oh, ever so the same old song

And oh ever so amusing

So all about an attitude and

All their poems that never change

Never … Change At All.

Or even acknowledge

That somewhere out there

In a real world where there are

No poetry slams or malls that there is

A desolate place where a child is dying alone of starvation,

That somewhere out there

In the real world there is a killer

Who really kills people with guns & without words

And who doesn’t give two shits about your attitude or your poetry

Or your wonderful comfortable happy thoughts ideas about

Peace or what’s right & wrong with your life, your relationships

Or what you had for dinner as he kills another person, another human being

For as little as

A thrill.

Yes, tonight as in every night somewhere

The rain poets are performing & whining once again about

The “I” & the “My” & the “Me” & “Why” & Are The

Who who are saying that I AM THE SHIT

When in the real world, and not in their own egotistical minds

Their convictions and words  are merely artificial

False anger, false masks & false words

That hide the real fear of the real world that they

fear the most.

But some advice?

You cannot save the world with a poem

But it is far better to try than to not try at all

And if those words are your only weapons?

Make them “REAL”


R.M. Engelhardt 2011

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