I’d rather run out of my house with no destination in mind

than reading poems about the same old poetry

When every poet in the world

writes about the same black ink

that courses down the veins to the fingertips

that holds the same pen

there is no thought of an individual

that bends the universal river

that sends goosebumps to the feather tips of the quiver

once held by playwrights and philosophers

poets dare to take away my pride

that simmers and boils and simmers

like a bipolar somebody who lives as a nobody

running without a purpose

letting go of the pendulum of his mood and attitude that swings from the same latitude to latitude

I’d rather be beautifully lost,

thoughts hidden in crumpled paper

let debris slap me in the face below my eyes

let a developing story take me by surprise

away from the demise

I’d rather travel down different creeks and build my own river

than to read

the same

poetry.