Guilty of Murdering Poetry

All your pages are white, with not one black word left.

How incredibly naïve I have been to think that poetry

would always gush, hiking and clouds would inspire

forever, the stream of thoughts that there was never

enough of. That bullet hit the left ventricle and spilled

out blood that is no different from your own except

for your addiction to hate mongering. Who won here?

The academic community that flunked your brilliance,

the student loan system that made you pay back in dreams?

Parents are always a cheap shot. She burned your books for

God's sake! He put you in the psychiatric ward. Fuck yeah!

I did it. If I hadn't loved you. I will write for the two of us.