Poetry, I Hate You.


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,


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


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.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.