Inspirational and dreed,
we puke up our word's
unit nothing is left.

Poetry is dead,
for we've rubbed it raw,
broke it down into the tiniest pieces.

Now we poets have to prove our right
to call ourselves a poetic crime.

We write it out, draw the line
slowly bleeding what we define.

Our fingers are raw, red,
and bleeding ink,
since dying for our format
is a true crime.

Poetry is dead because it's stuck choking on my mind.

© 2018 By Amanda D Shelton