I must be dying…
out of love,
out of life,
out of whatever,
but I must dying…

because there’s something inside my chest
that oppresses my being,
that makes me sick to my stomach
And suffocates me
every time I read poetical works.
They sound fake,
except from a few selected writers.

So I must be sick, ill, diseased,
infected with a incurable virus.
Specially that now a days,
so many poems come off as lifeless,
emotionless, thoughtless;
as zombies – meat eaters- who eat
my brain word by word,
And leave me with no flesh
to chew from.

It seems writers forget
that I too become infected with their work,
that I too become a walker
for meat, for life,
for substance
to feed from.

So I rather believe that it is me
who is sick of reading
a lack of logic and imagination
in poems
than to believe that poetry
is dying.


Written by: L.L.

October 2013


One of those moments when every poem that I stumbled upon had, made no sense at all.


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