winter epoch
This world doesn't treat words
With the pure innocence, they hold;
They strip it down; or add more lies to the
Wound they call meaning;
This world doesn't treat words
With the creativity granted, by the paper;
They turn it sour; or add unnecessaries,
To the cage that holds their mourning;
This world doesn't treat words
Like how they treat guns; they're
Adding too much drums, on the glock
That barely shoots; their purpose across.
Even words kill their own words;
They destroy it's meaning, strip off it's
Creativity; until it becomes as one as them
All; evenly sonically, evenly lyrically.
I did this too;
Us do;
We are the unapologetic poets that
Beg for power;
To the words that we destroy of our
Own goodwill
Whilst; we burn
It's sharp purpose,
Creativity;
This is where the
Poem ends.
(Warts)
jagged acorn
hollow halo