bad poet (poem)

I don’t like the brooding of soft minds, as i run from my own down an endless hallway

chased by oceans forced into rivers for building-consumption 

the rightness of word leaves me, i cannot speak to beauty

 I am no juliet to an anonymous romeo

couplets bore me, slice open proverbial jugulars and rub hands in the bleeding sight

iambic pentameter is the missionary position of poetry,

to say this is to discount everything done in the meadows of youth

before knowing more is knowing better

and knowing better is knowing silence

and

space 

sonnets are only necessary when love can be bound and gagged in 14 lines

cuddled in the soft kiss of ending line and rhyme

I prefer doggy style 

or fervor locked in a secret back closet,

as moments stolen

I have kinks

ties to be held in 

illusions to toe and shatter

my poetry is raw

it’s bloody and damp with sweat and tears

and blood

viscera known only to the underside of nails

insides of ears

depths of tongues

I am better confessional

I am better poetic chaos, pulling out growls

echoing moan from word to word because it feels so good to be open

it feels so good to be alive in this moment

and yet

only asked to die