You call yourselves poets
Artistic souls that see the world through the eyes of angels
Filleting their feelings like strips of cod, laying them out before a market of other poets
The air in here forces me to scoff, to gag on the air of over embellishment.
I pen as well, but not as well
I’ll admit to that
Over a thousand poems can be arrested to me
Though I do not call myself a poet
No
No my hapless ink stained celestial bound brethren of disdain and misery
I am a mad man.
Always desperately trying to find the right words
Frantically mashing away as if my fingers were trying to stomp out a ****** fire
Trying to keep my fingers busy
Lest I leave them be
They’ll **** me