Sour Milk

Self-serving bullshit flourished with little curlicues to incite a moment-

a feeling-a yearning that’s always used as a muse,

Extricated from the ebb and flow of joy and suffering-

the madness that comes with all the parts of the play we’re playing,

Words strung together to connect to ourselves by clinging to the “I” in others,

or hoping that a reader clutches their chest and sighs,

With its stupid fucking titles on nearly empty tanned pages abusing italic fonts,

because the slant reflects the soul’s biomechanics,

Pretty language to conceal the pungent taste of the sour milk humans lactate,

as they replace “art” with “masturbate,”

Romanticizing the victim for the sake of self-expression,

since it’s hard to form an identity without any afflictions.

I fucking hate poetry.