PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I tickle my poetry with
feathery words. I hear
mocking laughter. I see
a squirming thought ooze
all over my page. Gross!

I warm my poetry beneath
the sun. I hear it sizzle
and I flip it onto a burner.
Each shred of evidence
is erased. But the shrieks
of pain are real. Bloody
drops of flesh removed.
Gross!

I cut my poetry with a
butcher's knife. I hear
bones snapping, breaking.
I feel the resistance. I hear
the roar of terror. Messy
victory. Gross!

I tie my poetry up. I make
it starve and dehydrate. Tears
lace down its face. No mercy
as I watch it deteriorate. Gross!