Who's up for a downer of a catastrophe?
I left the tweets to the birds
My manager would hang me
"There's subtle meanings here,"
Says the caveman demeaning the women of the time,
"I think this will go on for ages."
Flying effervescent
Towards the lofty sun
Where "good poetry" sets
I'm the chainsaw to a wordsmith.
I'm the revolver to the head of the writer.
I'm textual suicide.
I know because of my sparing use of periods
Both in pieces and in grammatical ways.
Sunny days.
There's a time and a place
for all of them
But that's neither here nor there.
Asked if I could make music out of the words I so listfully splatter onto a cybernetic page, as if what I said had any meaning at all, and as if all emotion I threw out stuck to anything.
Deprecation
Defecation
Asphyxiation
I get choked up by my own ****