poetry is useless.
when one can't create.
without destroying the hands that build.
  
  
  
  
and building is overrated.
creation like childsplay. ugly features.
and mismatched melodies. there is no beauty
to corrupt. because the breakdown
leaves us all wanting more. more. more.
and when the ink dries.
the poet is just another person.
tearing themselves apart.
 
and the parts hit paper floors
disintigrating and
the truth bleeds
free verse with a fee,
foolish and the backlash burns
these words are
problems
that stanza asks and doesnt tell
there is no reason to make sense when
this "art" gives
less to make it from.
 
mismatched muse is bottleneck nonsense
the pen is a broken time machine
the multplicity misfiring melts expression
it just
thins
and frays
 
and the edges burn like fire never could.
paper cuts that make war crimes
look meaningless. and it's easy to ask oneself
if it's easy to ask anything.
when the paintings aren't made of oil.
and the writing
goes down the spine.
  
like a spoonful of sugarcoated lead.
nothing goes down easier when it's based on assumptions
and degredation is the key. to hearts and stone.
when the world keeps spinning. spinning
like silk-woven words. call me picasso
because I can't see in anything but fractures
and my pen is bloody nail.
  
this poetry is a bloody mess.
 
this bloody mess forces
wounds into metaphors
making inches reek of miles making
smiles out of a thousand cleverly placed
frowns
this chokehold finds me
rubbing the pages together until letters
fade and fold suggesting
smears are something and
years of nothing spewed from rock hard
fingertips, hold together.
 
like holding hands of hand-me-downs
fractured frowns and something like a pen to the temple.
 
seeping ink and dreaming in words
like a false idol of the world. it's time to
burn burn burn the pages of these notebooks
and say it's never enough to just hope.
becuase hope is like writing. when you've broken your lead
and you're just scratching the paper
and I like my hands as bloody
as my metaphors.
when I speak on supernovas.
and I hope I can still taste the ashes
of the holes I leave behind

call this bag of tricks magic,
my words are illusions.

this paper is a verb woven tophat that
releases scared smoke-blind hares
slamming into the mirrors with
rhyming crashes, their empty bodies
fall ragdoll in a mound of shattered deception.
every trick of this trade is sacrifice
every time
i'm left with a deck of deuces muttering
pick a card...

muse wells up like bile, sour
i wretch and heave, tasting sorrow twice as bitter
shotglass romance. this poetry leaves a vile aftertaste
as I vomit ink.
and create this.
 
this.


this fucking mess.





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a collab, by King_Crazy_Dave and Six-Out

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