This is not Poetry

SThe Asteroids have the Podium

My friend, Sammy, says This is not poetry.

Poetry… Like ours, is just real life with pretty words spread around like rose petals except… Crusty thistles instead of flowers. It's as real as real gets, Pally. We were not blessed with the blinders of ignorance. We've been adorned with the gift of sufferance. Our intelligence falls on wilfully deaf ears but those not on our level shout up to us about keeping the fucking music down. This gift is more of a severance package because a gift, you give back and, neither of us really wanna be here. The pseudo-intelligence that everyone seems to be swollen in the thighs with, causes these pricks to scarf bullshit like a Conehead, plowing down a sub sandwich.

But it's not poetry.

That's why we still help these egregious cunts. We are so incapable of hatred and indifference that, having friends is a paradoxical hindrance.

We're the fist…

And the face.

And .. THIS IS NOT POETRY.

We know that, when they light themselves on fire, in protest, and we put them out; they're gonna call us assholes for saving them, and reignite the damn flame. On the day that, we decide to finally walk away on our char-bottomed feet, is when they cry out about how we didn't care enough to stay.

ITS NOT POETRY; IT'S POETIC.

It's rhetoric, and I stopped fearing my sadness, and choked it by the fucking dick, in front of the whole goddamn class during show and tell me your dirtiest secrets. Fuck this place, fuck these people, and fuck all their bullshit. Fuck their fake Christianity, and their self-taught insanity. Fuck their motherfucking vanity, while they pose in front of the homeless kids they threw a half eaten sandwich at, and call themselves Salvation.

This is not fucking Poetry because…

I AM poetry, in a skin suit sewn together with chunks of keloids… If… If.. Ed Gein, and David Berkowitz were writing me, I'd already be infamous.

We're it. The last, great, solid shit this world will ever take because everyone after us got crying booths and cell phones to call the cops with, when their family tried killing them and, everything they ever tried to love.

Sammy was right…

THIS IS NOT FUCKING POETRY.

ITS ME.

©vondutchess