Right Poetry and Self Loathing

Semiotic representations of reality stunted by literal examinations of physical phenomenon…

Wait, wait, wait.
That’s terrible….
That’s not poetry….

Fine.

In truth,

my eyes feel most
useful when they are closed

backwards

piercing
the shabby chain mail of
a person
      so conscious of himself

he writes poetry to communicate…

Nope.

Stop talking about yourself.

Try talking about God…

I went in search of God on the banks of the River Nile…

What? Why the Nile? You’ve never even been to Egypt…
And that’s still about you.

I had to start somewhere, it’s romantic.
Besides, God has to be in one place or another,
I think.
Why not

start where man sails towards his own divinity?
Anyways, it’s poetic.

huh. Even God is lost in your ego.

Your search is meaningless… try again.

The daffodils bloom in the park;
      The fragrant breeze contains memories of
            Childhood mingled with the erotic hope of springtime.

Birdsong mingles with the hushed romance
      Of the cotton trees releasing their gifts to the earth.

Romantic drivel.

*silence*

That’s probably for the best…

 

          By: Nicholas Elbers

 

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