Confession of a Writer

by Everlasting   Feb 1, 2016


Poetically,

I must be dying...
out of love,
out of life,
out of whatever,
but I must dying...

because there's something inside my chest
that oppresses my being,
that makes me sick to my stomach
And suffocates me
every time I read poetical works.
They sound fake,
ungenuine,
except from a few selected writers.

So I must be sick, ill, diseased,
infected with a incurable virus.
Specially that now a days,
so many poems come off as lifeless,
emotionless, thoughtless;
as zombies - meat eaters- who eat
my brain word by word,
And leave me with no flesh
to chew from.

It seems writers forget
that I too become infected with their work,
that I too become a walker
looking
for meat, for life,
for substance
to feed from.

So I rather believe that it is me
who is sick of reading
a lack of logic and imagination
in poems
than to believe that poetry
is dying.

Written by :L.L.

Written in 2013, I think?

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Latest Comments

  • 8 years ago

    by Poet on the Piano

    Hmm, the part that grabbed me especially was when you mentioned "meat eaters" and you have no "flesh to chew from".

    Love this confession write, Luce. Your perspective is always fresh to read. I feel like I've experienced this before too, maybe in a different way, but like you can read words, be affected by them, yet know they are not your own. And you want that inspiration to. You don't want to force it like others perhaps.

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