The End of Poetry
I refuse, refuse to write anymore my head
is a winter turnip you can slice fry and pretend
it is schnitzel served with spinach and mashed
potatoes, all of them are veggies that refuse to
be eaten but have little choice but to surrender
at the motto of “Let us try this once more.”
Dreams are the last to go, she was sleeping and
dying woke up and said she had a funny dream
she told me about it delightful memories she
didn't have a happy childhood and a pony,
touched my deeply. Two hours later she died in
the middle of another dream and stark reality
sat in a corner crying. Pallid faces took her away
as I repeated to myself, I refuse to believe what
have occurred, reality had lost its rudder.
I accepted the avoidable opened a door and was hit
by a storm full of spiteful and hateful thoughts,
but I refuse to write about that.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
The End of Poetry
I refuse, refuse to write anymore my head
is a winter turnip you can slice fry and pretend
it is schnitzel served with spinach and mashed
potatoes, all of them are veggies that refuse to
be eaten but have little choice but to surrender
at the motto of “Let us try this once more.”
Dreams are the last to go, she was sleeping and
dying woke up and said she had a funny dream
she told me about it delightful memories she
didn't have a happy childhood and a pony,
touched my deeply. Two hours later she died in
the middle of another dream and stark reality
sat in a corner crying. Pallid faces took her away
as I repeated to myself, I refuse to believe what
have occurred, reality had lost its rudder.
I accepted the avoidable opened a door and was hit
by a storm full of spiteful and hateful thoughts,
but I refuse to write about that.
