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
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
I have to agree I get a tad angry when I read the schmaltz on the best seller list
LikeLiked by 1 person
i crave authenticity
LikeLike
Love this man …
the emptiness
that feels
more real
than any
fucking stanza
or half baked line
LikeLiked by 1 person
thank you, it was meant to be a poem of love and it changed to a poem of truth
LikeLike