Poetry, I Hate You.
I hate you.
You second-hand crutch.
I cannot feel without you.
I imagine experiencing this rush
with something else,
another depression, omission,
addiction, confession; another way
to sort out visions,
Nothing comes to mind.
Gee, aren’t I a lonely page?
Do you know-
I can’t reconcile a smile without you?
That I can’t be okay with me
without an explanation?
I cannot be in the world alone.
I force my impressions into you,
through you. It is sometimes violent
and always messy
and I hate it
but I need you.
A smell is not my own.
A breeze is not my own.
You take everything.
Everything from the fluttering-quick, hot-wave
hip-buck of climax to the resounding
soundless BOOM of my most black
Just, fuck you.
I’m tired of trying to please you,
I can’t get it right.
I will not be Perfect.
Perfect is a dead god.
Poetry, I hate you.
Don’t touch me.
I will not carry your children.
There is a shallow grave in my dream,
I will bury you there tonight.
As I pile the dirt on your proud
and spiteful bones,
I will think on all the nice times
I will have now that I’ve given you up.
Perhaps building snowmen,
taking long walks,
or writing in prose.