I Vomit Poems

I’m a modern poet.

Pyromaniac.

Psychotic.

And schizophrenic.

Living in emptiness,

I walk in the convolutions of absurdity.

Idiocy spreads over me like the sky.

My poetry storms between cozy shelters and rocky waves,

while the world rushes toward suicide.

Suffocated, I lift my head

but I’m dragged down by viscous triviality.

My tongue is burned

with the acid of loathing

I gawk at the world.

Crawling through the madness,

I welcome the garb of another day.

My life measured by pale, gray days.

I love a stray dog at a butcher’s shop

that stays all the day without chains,

and yowls others for leftovers.

I learned to worship agony.

I’m a commodity made in a cheap factory,

an item in a grocery list.

My heart a broken shell.

I don’t write; I vomit poems.