one day
after i have
finally died
i hope
no one searches
for meaning
in my words

dissecting poetry
is the same as
listening to
someone describe
their favorite
the perfect mix
of pink and purple
a hint of dark
to the east
when the diffusion
of golden light
saturated the world
in a moment of
pure perfection

just to tell them
they are wrong

the first time
the words hit you
is the only
that matters

don’t waste your
fleeting time
looking for
something more
you got exactly
what you were meant to
the first go round

a fool picks apart
the blanket
keeping the cold at bay
only to curse
the shoddy craftsmanship
of the factory worker

then again
who the fuck am i
just a half starved
factory worker
churning out
plastic poetry
by the bushel


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