talking the usual diatribe against
poetry,
     is a bit like a hammer
           talking against a violin...
in that casual spre(s)chen
                             (for the shoo,
thus added, rather than: a hen)...
you can't really compare
poetry to talking to a supermarket
cashier...
                 can you?
           poetry is a violin equivalent
to everyday casual talk
          being a hammer...
it's not even about formal or informal
talk...
             poetry isn't useful...
      it never was supposed to be...
   likewise, you wouldn't use
a violin, to hammer in a nail...
you'd need an actual hammer...
         on the terse side of things:
  what the **** are you on about?
  you can't give a critique of poetry
the same critique you give to modern art,
that stresses geometry...
           and only produces a black square
on a white canvas...
            so there isn't anything hidden
in that? no braille?
              i'm sure there is some braille
hidden in that...
      maybe you're not so artsy-fartsy
as you might think you could be...
ever talk to a blonde high on *******?
no?          try it... you're going
    to chop of your tongue, and later
talk in mime.
           there has to be something
in these simplistic retardations...
             **** me... triangle...
      would i sooner associate
     ramses and the pyramid,
          or pythagoras and the protractor?
that's just asking:
    and the speed of light?
          even blinking with your eyes
          can't measure the exactness of it.
i'm drunk, and just ****** about
how poetry is ****** in talk...
                 and believe me,
i hate the orthodox poets, that rhyme,
and when uttering their own ****,
are short on breath...
                   when i cite poetry, i just mean
language...
                         and when i cite language,
i just mean god...
                  so what, you fluent in braille
                 or sign-language?
hence me, sniffer dog of the lot,
                               yep,
the germans sometimes deviate
                                      from the ß / ss...
in the example already given...
          spre(s)chen...
               yep... it would be spre-hen
        but it's spre-shen...
east germans pronounce ich - isch / ish
and western germans pronounce ich -
                                 e-hah-hark-e-hah...
**** me, in english translated,
                              that's like begging
                                for a zeppelin.

We are the vapours in time,
proud, aloof and in our prime,
the transcendence of forgotten youth,
drifting through the parodies of truth,
we collect the black clouds of despair,
wear them as trophies in our hair,
souls amidst the tombs of hope,
woven together like coils of rope,
we dance to an unknown tune,
our redemption is upon us soon,
brother and sister you see it too,
that you are me and I am you.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

There are billions of others just like me no matter which night.
We all offer the same thing, we all give off that light.
But should I go and let my fire die
there'll still be those that notice and wonder, why?

Because I'm one in a billion, and I'm still your favourite star.
Light years from your world, but to you that's not very far.
Because when the night drops down with darkness,
you know your sky will not be starless.
We all give off the same kind of light,
but you think that I stand out as bright.

The truth is that I shine for you,
because when I feel dark,
you help me pull through.

You are one in a billion here on Earth,
but your heart is what determines your worth.
From where I stand its easy to see,
that your heart burns as bright as can be.