Dead Poets

Woah! Nailed it!

S. K. Nicholas

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Safe poets who write their lives away never once getting to the source of what it means to be alive. We were made to suffer, and yet they act as if the poetry of our souls were second best to second rate stories involving characters with less flesh on them than some dumb fuck parading on a catwalk. Such a waste of words. Such a mess of misguided intentions. If you’re going to speak, speak because you want to fuck the brains out of all those reading what you say, not because you want to politely tickle their bits and put a smile on their face. Speak because you want to be their everything, not just some tepid teatime read. Open your mouth and let me sick my disease right down your throat. Succumb to my ill intentions and let me flourish when others wished only to see me stood…

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