 |
 |
 |
| |
The Price of Poetry
Quietly inhaling the world through small painful lessons lessen in quantity the more you bitch and moan about the burning in your throat.
Only sickness numbs rage found in passion, and now I am terminal.
Despairs for pussies that can't hold their breath for longer than a lifetime.
Screams come up and air goes down while all around the world waits for words.
Quality of life found bound, beaten and raped with pens stabbed through the heart.
The very center of the system growing anxious and infectious, causing tonic spasms as lockjaw becomes a new form of expression.
The price of poetry.
Want to comment on this Poetry?
Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...
|
 |
|
[Back to top]
|
|
|
|
Yes!
Poets are the historians of selfish pains through a societal lens.
Every day I go about in the city getting sick of the waste of breath and space and life consumed by the herds of worthless mortals.
Pain, it seems, is the breastmilk of poetry and I have had and pursued my share. In fact, I think that I have a habit.
But, enough about me.
Nice fucking rant.
You seem pissed and that is the blood of the real poet. Keep writing.
'Screams come up and air goes down....." excellent. Such venom in your words.
Stay angry.
Rage--but, keep a pen nearby.
Spor |
| 1 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
