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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