What pours from the mouth of a poet vomit on a page
Retched innards, guts, a naked heart, boiling blood of rage
Pornographic passion, grief ashen exposed in a bucket of words
A soul exposed in a poem composed that critics call fetid turds
Pissing on one's journal flushing tears down a urinal is what back biters say
Yet stealing leaves from your vines, they rob your lines then go on their way
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Author:
sorenbarrett (
Offline) - Published: February 25th, 2026 03:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
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