Image from amino gif:
https://giphy.com/gifs/night-eyes-bird-26n78QtJt4LHeNXi0
Can 'boredom' inspire good poetry?
Or does it vomit complete crap?
-Meaningless drivel,
-Emotionless claptrap,
-Inarticulate messy scribbles,
-Metaphors for nothing,
-No hook nor climax,
-No return home,
-Nothing learned,
-Nothing gained,
-Time lost to the wind.
So what happens next?
Quest for inspiration?
A real search for living.
Can vodka inspire whimsy?
Poetry of curb-sides,
Street lamps and converse sneakers,
And red lights,
Thumping bass techno music dance death,
Skin on skin, smooth and refined,
Lace and racey textures,
The downward spiral:
Alley-way allegory.
Stumbles with mumbles,
Wisdom fermented and consumed,
And again, and again,
With voracious appetites,
For the hook and...
For the climax.
Experiences best suited for late evening,
After the werewolves have returned,
To their dens, to lick themselves,
And still blackness is worn
-not as a cloak of regret, but rather
-as a rite of age.
These simple words,
These simple words so ordered:
A love letter...
This, therefore, is a love letter written at night.
Not to you, the poets,
As pretty as you are,
But to the ideas you put forth, -as I see them.
It is for me, the reader, to interpret as I will.
For your own intentions mean nothing to me,
In my current state,
As my fever reaches new heights,
In my dilerious attempts to find meanng,
And inspiration for living, NOW,
In the present tense.
Please take note then, and know this,
You heartless beasts:
Your words have injured me, to the quick.
Your poems have uprooted my very being,
To the core,
Which wasn't rotten, but now is,
Because of you.
From your negligence,
For you've spewed truth,
And it has damaged me.
Like a volcanic eruption, hot and heavy,
Your ash is Tattooed upon my thin skin,
Forever.
No, it is more than that,
It is woven into my very matrix.
Unseparable without further damage,
Like con-ed twins.
Didn't you know that your words 'moved, '
And thus the steady bed-rock beneath me
Is now in question?
I can not find peace,
Nor approach happiness ever again.
SINCE I READ YOU.
For you left nothing more unsaid.
And your very manner of saying it...
Was more than could ever be explained.
My heart is a prisoner, to your poetry.
Read it to me, I am begging like a dog,
For I am blind.
I hate you for your poems,
For that is all I know of you.
And it is still too much to reconsile.
I hate myself for reading you.
So the question now becomes:
-Knowing this,
-How do i ever find happiness again?
For I can not unread you.
Comments (2)
Creepy