Here,

It’s such a monkey dance

Performing poetry for your entertainment

A facade of word vomit spewed on a vocal stage

Your hearts and comments wilted roses thrown at bare metaphorical feet

Just trip and prick on your thorns and bleed more poetry for your enjoyment

How many poems really shook you?

How many stabbed you in the guts over and over again

Until you bled semi vulnerable poetic responses dressed in gauze the colour of dusk and dawn

But see, I owe you nothing

This poem shouldn’t even be written

What good does it do to add to the aches plastered across home page

Are we really all that broken and sore

Or do we pick at scabs to write with

A sort of phantom pain

A whisper of trauma strung together to paint a pity picture

Yet here I am

Filled with rage and nothingness

Because both basically mean the same thing and I

Refuse

To

Speak

When

Told

To