What Is Poetry? Who Cares? Poem by seth kennedy

this pen.
is my rusty nail.
leaving scars in my palm
in the wake of this
daily.crucifixion.

and I'd like to state- that I am nothing original
wisping overused words that mean little.
when I'm counting star-drops
and playing connect-the-dots with
my fa(u) ltered breathing. existing.
is all one can do- when...

and I'm no- broken record.
that's so retro. it just seems as if
my finger is lingering. on the repeat.button
maybe this time.
I can mean what I bleed.

bleeding. is as overrated as breathing.
and I like to scream at the moments
I'll never forget- as if time cares.
because it's the only father figure. I have.

and so. I'm speaking/ in broken fragments.
because anything more fractured than me
-obviously. makes me look better in comparison.
and who wouldn't want to look
into a shattered mirror. and see a saint.
cracked facial features. and a lopsided smile.
picasso would be proud.


so this burnt heart
is the only reminder now.
of this daily.crucifix(a) tion. bury me.
because being born was a big enough burden.
the first time.

and they tell me- this is art.
I say this is perversion of perception. (BY) J.E.K