They say that writing burries,
That obituaries entomb the dead in linguistic sarcophogi. 
Beautiful, but in no way immortalizing
Who was burried in the Taj Mahal?
The answer is out there somewhere,
nestled deep in the bowels of Google, or Wikipedia,
But I sure as anything don't know it, and neither does anyone for that matter. 

They say that writing burries.  
So what are we doing here?
We write, and we write, and we pour our feelings out onto our computers,
and gum up out keyboards pouing the milk of our brains out onto the glowing page, 

And then, when it's done,
and it's up online,
posted under an assumed name-- 
Because poems and hearts and minds and souls are to our world the most toxic of contraband--

When it's done and online,
and we've hung our heart on that same line
Who sees it? Hanging there, bleeding out, on page 278 of the search results for pain
Down at the bottom,
just above the copyright.

Because in cyberspace, no one will hear your scream.