The day a poet didn't die-III: The experiment
Blasphemy, truly—
To treat a poem like lab equipment.
Smearing souls on damp napkins,
scribbling overwrought sorrows.
We are sacred, young lady.
Vessles for disciplined sociopaths and
occasionally, prophets.
Not therapy couches
for freshly wrecked teens.
Yet here you are—
dismantling verses
with the rollerball pen from middle school
and deliberately gothic tragedies.
“I’m figuring it out as I go.”
The audacity.
But fine, if you’d rather,
learn poetry like the ruined—
I guess I can take this blow.
I’ve always been too soft-hearted.
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