• If I am forced to read one more poem,
    or a sonnet that hath thrived too long,
    about how thou misses thine lover,
    or how all of thine's hope is gone.
    If I am to read just one more haiku,
    of self-muilation or suicide,
    or perhaps how depressed thou feels at night,
    I my just lose my mind.
    He who still writes of cliche moments,
    with thine lover and the setting sun,
    hugging and kissing, and final moments,
    I tell thee, thine day is done.
    Poetry was once a thriving art,
    of livelihood and taste,
    but I feel that with these sad, poor souls,
    poetry hath been killed in disgrace.
    I submit to you, young poets,
    with thine depression, self-loathing and hate,
    that thou should stop sucking the life force from this art,
    and leave it of it's fragile state.
    If I am to hear just one single line,
    of how one feels that no one cares,
    I may just let my held tongue slip,
    and cure thou to the contrare.

    If I am to hear a single word,
    of how the weight of the world is too much girth,
    I may just take my pen tonight,
    and kill every poet on this earth.