The Poet's Job

we, poets, are the worst
bending and redefining the ugly into honey
making something look the opposite of lonely
shuffling letters,
building towers,
creating monsters
now little johny believes that life is a beautiful tragedy

the pulling of lips and skin behind your bony skull
the flowers that grow on cracks on a wall so dull
wounds and scars and lacerations in a porcelain doll
darling none of these actually make the beauty crawl

but we, poets, are the worst
singing melodies out of sinking ships
houses with bricks from tapered hips
spider-sew,
mend anew,
erase the blue
all from rotten flesh and skin-strips

oh, how lovely is a brackish pool of sins
how sweet is a plate of bile on hungry chins
how appetizing is a stale bread of raisins
wake up, these are literally dead fish fins

but we, poets, are the worst
curling properly-positioned highway lines
painting brighter acrylic on top of red and white stop signs
planting roses,
shaping nooses,
blinding voices,
let us all pretend that soft is a synonym of the word spines

we, poets, are the worst
because we would tell you that love feels like warmth of the sun
or that it smells like a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie
or that it tastes like your favourite home-made recipe
but we are the worst
we are the liars and you are a fool to believe that there is something pretty in crying
that there is something worth believing in hearts throbbing
hands shaking, eyes’ empty staring, alcohol pouring and cigarette smoking
we are the worst and we are good at being the worst
the best at being the worst

and i am sorry
but i am going to do this again and again
shuffle letters, build towers, create monsters,
plant roses, shape nooses with our blinding voices
and your body will always sway
your bare feet will chase away
every word, every rhyme, 
until the very end you will stay
because we, poets, are the worst
and you love it every time your heart bursts