These Bloody Words

November 16, 2011
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I am a poet
I take my pen
And carefully slice
Open my belly
Root around for a while,
Pull out some organs with
A bloody hand
Arrange everything on a
White piece of paper
That’s no longer white
Take the heart out last
Place it
On top of the pile

Like a garnish


Hand it all to
The grimacing reader
Knowing that as soon
As my back is turned,
They will throw it away
Without a

Second thought
I am a poet
With a gaping wound
And no heart

Stupid poetry

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