I Vomit Poems

I’m a modern poet. Pyromaniac. Psychotic. And schizophrenic. Living in emptiness, I walk in the convolutions of absurdity. Idiocy spreads over me like the sky. My poetry storms between cozy shelters and rocky waves, while the world rushes toward suicide. Suffocated, I lift my head but I’m dragged down by viscous triviality. My tongue is burned with the acid of loathing I gawk at the world. Crawling through the madness, I welcome the garb of another day. My life measured by pale, gray days. A stray dog at a butcher’s shop that stays all the day without chains, and yowls others for leftovers. I learned to worship agony. I’m a commodity made in a cheap factory, an item in a grocery list. My heart a broken shell. I don’t write; I vomit poems.