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It is a vulgar, tasteless brute that read a book once.
It is a vulgar, tasteless brute that read a book once.
It’s pungent aroma sticks to you like the mud it tracked
onto your carpet
It tarnishes and scratches, rusts and molds.
It weasels its way in with some words that you thought made
sense at the time, or resonated with the big hole in your life you’ve been
covering up with shopping and movies.
It leaves an off color stain on you that you desperately try
to hide. When someone asks you
about it you try to choke down the embarrassment when you have to explain that
it was all “something that happened by accident” or “well this rude person
barged in here and…”
It’s the same insanity that makes you think if you keep doing
it over and over again and expect different results.
That’s what poetry is.
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