art of saying, isn’t experience bound
or, there would be billions of poets
and poetry isn’t work of laborious
astute thinkers
or else, many wouldn’t even make a sound
they sleep in pain
and are diseased
over burdened and waking up is next in their mind
I think of poets inspirators
they live in less oxygen
poets existence of parasites
we suck aesthetics of least expressed minds
we steal their diseased life’s pleasure
and
with chest pounding
with these texts, we claim the world
but, there is nothing
that is mine
we live on leaked moments of others time
we live in social garbage bins
our time is drag
it lags behind the reality’s time
and we realize again and again
others mistakes, we see their actions in reasons
and lack any strength except to opine
poets don’t die thats why
death isn’t a gift for dragging time
death is a release
only for real, fathers mothers and warriors their children and verbs
death doesn’t exist for sorry nouns…
