Poetry is a rifling through the drawers of an old dresser in search of some embarrassing photograph that you can now take advantage of with your matured intellect.
Poetry is a ring circus hosting clownish parlour tricks for the sake of a riotous laugh.
I have given it no quarter and it has offered me none in return.
You think you can lie to the page and expect mercy?
Ink draws blood black when its truth is set hard against you.
Nothing binds more bitter than the written word, so we must truly live in a capitalist society,
for curses have all but been replaced as the primary means of revenge.
And, so this poetry that births itself upon a webpage, in pixellated photons, drenched in the machinations of the info-philic modern age, is even so, worming itself towards a great harmony of thought.
For what else is there to life but to love and to lose?
And if writing can allow a nation to exist for centuries, then it can surely free me from pain.