a poet’s kink

these wordsmiths
lie around
waiting
for something
awful to occur

getting off
on grief
like some type
of shameful
pornography

the authors
are eager
to have their
hearts broken
and melted down

they act as saints
that have no idea
the subject matter
will be used as
stain glass windows

the expressive fiends
salivate over
erotic fantasies
of adored
creations

to rebel against
publishers
would be
equal to
heresy

new age poets
revere themselves
as modern day Jesus
turning tears of the past into
fine whines

their audiences
are struck
with awe
marveling
at these godly acts

but the hilarity
of it all?
We crucify ourselves
and our trespasses
are never forgiven

but it’s okay
we like being tied up

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