Walking Poetry

This poetry drinks coffee and still lacks caffeine.
5 a.m. poetry always tended to shy away form energy.
So let’s arm it with political tongues and make a scene
To see what this whore named Poetry can do for the country.
Let’s dress it up in cheap clothing and slip sinful money down
It’s meaning, DJ’ing hard metal and handing it a silver pole,
Drip mascara from its symbols and adorn perfume on each noun,
Allow students to study it in class and tear apart its soul:
Physical form is anorexitized with a self-mutilated rhyme scheme
And riddled metaphors with prom dressed similes to present the notion of a pacifier
Mentally incapacitated of coherent focus and truth rule the filth of the theme
Placing facades over the realist, its occupation is a pathological liar.
Yet what’s this? Poetry – an idol?, a tragic hero?, a role model?, a God?
Sacrificing all common sense, humanity’s values and morals reside in the media.
Because of our beliefs and anti-thinking about all opinions, we are the fraud
Regressing in time, melting Descartes’ wax, forgetting the Greek’s daughter Sophia.
But remember, we did this… no, we do this to each other
Because Poetry started out as a mere skeleton which you transformed into your entertainer,
Now addicted to chemically induced thoughts while truth is sent under cover.
So I dare you to read the history of the skin you created, the skin that now hangs from bones like old cobwebs from a wired coat hanger

© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/

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