The Complete Destruction of Poetic Construction
The writer said as he spoke to the walls of poetry he had written with blood, calmly twirling the paint brush in self-inflicted cuts, eyes blue like earth rocks keep tossing and turning, skipping rivers, and pushing mountains inside out until they look like valleys. Really? Can he really do that? He replies with his mind, mouth not even moving, “Yes I can, imagine an imagination nation,” as he spans his hands the length of a cluster fuck of galaxies. Sanity is complexity, and simplicity is a disastrous parasite that thinks of thoughts never thought of. Destruction, kill the writer, like his words actually meant anything! They called him names like a broken record playing on a record player that never breaks, until he finally went mad and hung himself from a skyscraper. As I walk through the crowd, I could hear them saying things like, “Psychopath deserves it, he let his mind get the best of him, and thank God, God is dead.” Such terrible things to say about a writer who just wanted to write poetry about what the ghosts had told him. You may think that I am this writer, when he writes, he writes. I personally have never learned how to write.
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