Poetry

The trouble with poetry is that it amplifies everything
I want to feel this I want to feel that
It’s verbs and superlatives
Being a poet is allowing one’s heart to be dice
but being the sneaky dealer at the same damn time
It’s declaring that she is the sun when you know your heart loves eclipses
It’s telling her she’s the one, as if you can’t find more synonyms
Poetry is alcohol. Russian standard, triple distilled. It will ruin you, give you black outs like a West African town with one power station.
You will eat the grapes of her smile her smell her presence and they will ferment in your stomach and bubble up pounding on your throat till you’re left gushing words you can’t explain, hungover and empty yet satisfied.
Poetry does not believe in a formulaic way of loving you. There are an infinite number of stanzas in which I can tell you I miss you. What verse will tell me no? Feet after feet I will testify what the brewery in my gut is churning.
Poetry makes use of the times when we don’t speak. When we feign invulnerability, hiding behind pride and uncertainty, poetry loves it.
Poetry is such a dick. Poetry is a blessing.
Poetry is not something I choose.
The other day when I read your letter and you told me you loved me less, I ran, I ran really hard on the treadmill and it felt really good.
Poetry is the House, she always wins.

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