Picked up a book: I could smell the corpse rotting between the lines

Picked up a book: I could smell the corpse rotting between the lines, tried another, same, replaced, picked and shelved again. Successive browsing of these graveyards of butchered imagination turned my spring sour, like poison gas, leaving behind an unfathomable destruction.

I cannot stand it.

Wave my wand, a flick of wrist: begone trash! Begone and never come back, the same stale imagery (black like death), same songs of love (lovely like rose, heartbreak moons kissing the waves goodbye). Never let me see the same cheap tricks: press enter and forget

capitol letters and enjambment is

careless tripping without purpose. Get

Out and

Begone

Lest I grab your sorry verse and grind it, headfirst, in the dirt. You can get your relatable tumbler quotes and insta-poetry out of my face. You cannot possibly understand me with the insincere, lazy language of a borrowed tongue.

Recently the deaths of the Creative spirit concerned me: every book I pick up is trying to write like someone else, fall in love with the same words, heart breaking the same love: a love in our time is passionless imitation. Everything we are consuming tried their hardest to bore. That’s the problem, writers write about passion unbeknownst to them, so everything they build falls apart (you just cannot fake the universe overflowing in you, some people need to realize).

In this abundance of crap writing, floating adrift at sea, I crave for freshwater dew, something that spreads on my tongue when I read it. Some fire, some valiant struggle, irrational. Give me something honest.