Critic

If your lungs
would still
be filled
with
reddish veins
I'm sure
you would
loathe
the words
on my
computer screen

I'll take that
as a compliment
because
loads of people
didn't like you
as well

Don't be mistaken
I bore myself too
with my heart's pourings,
my inner
gushings,
my core's letters
into
useless sentences,
pure senselessness

Fortunately,
I am not
too fussed
about the critics
I even revel in
the importance
they see within
their biased opinions

It entertains me much
how most reviewers
are
master illusionists
their delusions
conjuring superiority

We are the raw,
the non decorated,
the sufferers
from
unbearable futility,
from
the idleness
of we existing,
like cuddly bears
stuffed
by acts and thoughts
we do and think
to kill time
until we're sewn up
by the needle
of the grim reeper
wishing
for the stitching
not to hurt too much

Maybe that's why
I can appreciate
even the tiniest of flies
we are all here
to survive and to try
and how one
gives meaning
to the meaningless
deserves awe
it can not be any other way
for me

Or at least I pretend to

MotherHustler