Poetry, I Hate You.

Poetry,

I hate you.

You second-hand crutch.

You reality-filter.

I cannot feel without you.


I imagine experiencing this rush

with something else,

another depression, omission,

addiction, confession; another way

to sort out visions,

vicarious.


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

and pathetic

drunk.


No, no.

Fuck you.

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.

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