lament for tortured writers

How is your week going little la las? Here is an angry poem (but playful).


tortured writer


he has dreams
of branding his lines
into flesh
and
the dissenters, the
what’s-it-meaners,
the that’s-nonsensers,
and their tongues
to stew in a cauldron composed
of
cantos. blister
in mouth, of eyes to engulf
flaming skyscrapers of
simile.
he desires to construct airplanes
of
his stanzas and send them
crashing
picnics.
the hemisphere engulfed in
pentameter and
the world
construed in free
free
verse.