My poems don’t kill. They give life, by killing. It’s a form of a curse. A source of merciful torture. A peaceful evil. A world where everyone is the hero and the villain.  

I’m a cursed poet, by an ugly form of beauty. A gorgeous kind of monster. I hate loving it, and it loves hating me. But we live together, because that’s the only way we’re able to be.

That’s my simple tale, my dear. I have very little to do with the decision making. I hold the pen, and close my eyes. The rest is up to the gods of poetry. 

You see, That’s the whole problem. A conundrum of authoritarianism. And I don’t even know what the word means. That’s how crazy they are. But what can I do. 

I just let it happen. And wish for a day when they let me go, but that’ll be the day I vanish. So let’s just hope for another day, another poem. Another heart to feel less lonely, and a world where the sun is the currency. 


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