You want to write about buzzing bees and blossoming blooms?
Write all you want.
You want to glorify the first-world experiences
of your third-world existence?
Suit yourself.
But don’t you dare call it poetry.
It’s genital boils and gentle farts at best.
Perfumed deception.
Filtered thought.
Main course of delusion with privilege for garnishing.
You think life’s beautiful —
No, you don’t.
You just want people to believe
that your life
is a curated gallery of minimalist heartbreak and aesthetic orgasms.
Because what would the picture-perfect idea of you say
when those nicotine-stained fangs
finally cut through the illusion you've woven —
for the world, and, for yourself?
You don’t talk about the dirty.
The filthy.
The real.
Because that would mean acceptance.
And you, my pretend-intellectual acquaintance,
are denial on drugs at best.
And addicts?
They don’t heal.
They hallucinate.
They monologue in mirrors and call it poetry.
You write in languages
too archaic to even be nostalgic —
as if dead tongues
can resuscitate your relevance.
You do it so you can sleep
feeling superior
about a petty existence
with the exact importance of a shriveled ball sack
in winter.
You take pride in writing obituaries in a language buried for hundreds of years.
Well, be my guest.
Join the fucking dinosaurs.
Carved.
Catalogued.
Caged in museums.
Sold for cheap exhibitionism.
Because while you drown in scented denial,
some of us are busy living —
ugly, honest,
filthy,
feral,
free.
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