Being a poet is not the job of a poet
Small pests we are
the poets of the world
In order to outlive we live
Fighting to feed the beast with enough life
to spew another poem out
it’s gross it’s small it’s filled with blood and puss
We take it out with dirty hands
And pray to not get infected with mediocre lines
We sanitize the wounds with vast amounts of booze
We cauterize with burning cigarettes
We greet the sunrise while collapsing inside ourselves
And pray to have another day of real life
Then die
27/10/2023
