I’m sorry, but your contempt is unwarranted. Am I shouting to deaf ears? Anger is just a state of mind here You have a choice. I know distress often has no choice, But what’s hard for you isn’t hard for me I can let go But you can’t fathom the horror that engulfs me That’s so easily swallowed in apathy And pathetic regression My poetic regret catches my tongue as I begin to let go ‘Oh, No!’ you mustn’t lie to yourself I am sad for you, being so stuck in reason. You know nothing of the terribly sick and tormented subjectivity that underlies everything You spit text book mysticism W/out having visitations by sweet songbirds of explosive creation You have never been Blake You haven’t turned to stone From the night dogs leap into the skin of men You have never healed a soul with your eyes And I’m sorry for you; it becomes easier for me to understand your contempt I understand how easily you leap to presumptions fine edge before tumbling onto the next heathen plateau of God-neglect and explicit soul stitching I‘m sorry you’ve never had your life flashed in deaths muzzle I’m sorry you have never been displayed the elegance of middle being, Where no emotion is unwarranted and the acceptance of history and death unlock you from the bedpost.