the violence of poets

there is no happy
of fists upon faces
so we suffer ourselves to
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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