Mass Production

A poem about the corruption of the artistic process.

Fame is to be found in an algorithm, or so it seems

Math governs art, and numbers manipulate dreams

Art not to satisfy the soul, but to appease the faceless

We must conform, and produce what's worthless 

Write first, and ask questions later, retroactive reasoning

justifying things we don't believe in 

Mass production

An eruption of mediocre material flowing from me

Bathing in my own hypocrisy