the violence of poets

there is no happy
beatbeatbeat
of fists upon faces
so we suffer ourselves to
beatbeatbeat
our pens upon pages,
crazed fingers on keys
that words would pour;
pulse like gushing blood
to sate a different kind of lust…
it is the violence of poets that burns,
burns as light in a shit-black world
til’ empty as hollow gas cans
they are thrown wasted aside
to the rust and runaway dreams

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