Poem Pop


I need to bring you into a poem? 
Pop, here you are. 
Now that you’re clearly seated, 
I suppose that we can start. 
You want this simple, common, 
but what you suggest is a mess, 
No rest for a writer 
with mind like cider
pouring out a spout 
of me, 
a sea of the third degree, 
since it burns 
when you speak in terms 
of how my words formlessly churn. 
Let me correct your rhetoric 
and assist the less fortunate 
for my mind is a line, 
a fine and divine device,
you swine, you lice, 
you leech, you preach 
things no one did give you, 
fool, trying to tamper with the spool
when I’ve already spun a web
of conscious words
right at your head. 
Neglect, I expect, 
but tragic cries and
wheeping signs
send me into 
a form fluttered rise. 
So loose are these words, 
flushed out my system
in colorful ways 
begging to miss you, 
send you away, 
your craze, 
your maze that you did make, 
from the words of my own 
you wish you could take. 
Now pop out of my head, 
remove your judgment, 
because soon it will be too late, 
and you appreciate nothing.


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