I am tired of sad poetry.
I want to crumple it in my fists
Throw it in the trash where it belongs.
Where is all the poetry praising sunshine,
Snickers bars, crop tops, and Jon Snow’s butt.
Every word from a poet’s mouth is twisted and
Bloody, dripping down their chins, gums bleeding,
Heavy and red with their suffering. Eyes black with
Hate and regret. Must I plunge a knife in my gut
To carve out my art, because it seems all you
Want to see is the working of my bloody
organs, how they pump and squirm,
Alive and pulsating, slowly dying.
Let me write about his smile,
The music I heard today,
The cloudless sky.
Let me write