Sunday, February 22, 2015

Not a poem.

There are no writers,
There is no genre,
A thing as a poem does not excists.

The words on paper,
Are not words,
Not even nouns combined.

I do not put a pen to paper,
Not even when ink is black,
And I have a white blank page.

There is not a thing called inspiration,
Nothing as a muse is imaginable,
All any human, even I can put to paper...

Is the tears that drip down and soak in,
The sweat from my heart running from the thoughts of my mind,
Or a spatter of salvia from the wildest laughs.

I'll cut my fingers on the edges,
And bleed my heart out,
The red lipstick of a kiss so soft.

Is the crooked shreds you pulled,
The crumble your trembling and clasping hand makes,
The slighty vage linger from the print of my finger.

That alone,
Is what paper asks for,
And what we can write.

There for there are no writers,
There is not a genre to be found,
Things as poems don't excist.




















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