Poetry is for the weak
They are drawn to it like flies to honey
And the sane are repelled as if it were vinegar
For to seal one’s dreams and aspirations
To imprint one’s miseries in stone
Where any can read in comfort that written in a soul’s whirlwind
Misunderstanding the misrepresented
All thought and emotion contained
Thrust unto the page like insanity
Forming a chain of broken glass and spirit
They lie on the lap of the indifferent judge
Who shows apathy at the ink heart thrust before him
And he stabs at the meaty emotion
Raw and wet he claws out its anguish for the carrion birds
And the disregarded writer screams in agony as his heart laid bare is swiftly pecked away