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,
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,
to feed from.
So I rather believe that it is me
who is sick of reading
a lack of logic and imagination
than to believe that poetry
Written by: L.L.
One of those moments when every poem that I stumbled upon had, made no sense at all.