I hate poetry.
How it sounds,
How it feels.
I hate how it’s just there
In the first place.
I mean,
Who would bother
To make words rhyme
For fun?
I am done
With these puns
Repetit-ions.
I am tired
Of expressing confessions,
Confessing expressions.
I am sick of this drug
That puts my brain in a blender
And pulses it.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Until it is a hopeless pulp
Of confusing thoughts.
I do not what to write.
I do not what to think.
All I want is for it to go away
And leave me behind in the dust.
To just find another victim
Of its evil wrath
Who will actually appreciate it.
I hate it,
I hate it.
What the hell does it want from me?
I have done nothing to hurt it,
Nothing to beckon its presence into my mind.
All I’ve done is go through s***.
I’m already hopeless,
And it’s the last thing I need.
I hate poetry.
So why can’t it hate me?