PUNK POETRY: Dead Man's Art Form by Ethan McKnight

I bought a death note journal.
Poetry is the only name I wrote down.

It seems to have not worked,
Because time is already doing the job.
I’m just here to bury the casket.

Pretend to be Poe and Kaur
If their high art,
Walmart wouldn’t even sell your knockoffs.

There's no message understandable
For the common man and woman,
Exclusive for the unemployed degrees.

Another poet hates modern poetry.
What a surprise.
Give us an award.
I said “us” 'cause it’s not just me;
I’m speaking for the outcasts.

We say let it burn,
Because editors casted us out
For telling “our truth.”
There is no “our truth.”
Reality is controlled by culture,
And they’re speaking for the record
That this is a rotting corpse.


--Ethan McKnight

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