Poetry
It’s too systematic for me
Too expressive for me
Reminds me of a room full of old men
Smoking cigars and scribbling with ink pens
Trying to pull abstract concepts from the reading den
With no luck, choppy sentences that can’t be mended
It’s too weighted, too analyzed, decomposed and revived
Two roads diverge in a yellow wood
Maybe he was hiking, I never understood
The meanings that are given to combinations of words
Or no words at all
Or words spelled backwards
Or words spelled using the beginnings of other words
There is no story
There is no clear information
It’s a deformation of prose
An exercise of imagination
And I wont read it or write it or listen to it
So take it back, hide it, I don’t want to see it
I’ll stick to my stories and continue to fight it
Poetry
