poets are empty spots where real people see wonder in the hazy nothing

it isn’t
suicide
it is just that
all the things
i love
are killing me
incrementally
these poets
with their pretty
words
that make me
wonder
if more than
a handful
ever felt anything
at all
that wasn’t
a goddamned metaphor
or buried
so deeply
that it became
an echo of
a fractured
nothing
i keep seeking
the beauty
in the ugly
spread across
a thousand
accusing stares
as the blood
drips down
the smashed mirrors
that only
reflect
the emptiness
that feels
more real
than any
fucking stanza
or half baked line

4 thoughts on “poets are empty spots where real people see wonder in the hazy nothing

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