in the following page
i go undressed,
i open myself, i get
rid of my shelf
the venom in these words
could have killed us,
we must die, indeed, but indigested
from our own old flesh
these verses won’t blow buildings,
won’t run guns,
ain’t crevices cracking
the very fabric of things
they’re beasts short of fangs,
knives too numb to feel, axes
too heavy to be raised
for or against
verses absolutely serve
to no use, whoever said there would
be something to fake or make
senses in a verse?
poems were never meant to be
sphynxes to no answer,
nameless streets in a country
where only the blindmen can read
they’re rather functional dyslexics:
if they still say something, they don’t mean it,
they just still say with words
when words won’t mean a thing
or simply: byproducts of attention,
flukes to no avail,
fingers stretching till a dead end, so we
can’t hang on them nails
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