sickness

Sick of profundity
Sick of ecstasy
Sick of poets in-
dulging in fantasy

Sick of confession
Sick of song
Sick of writers ad-
mitting they’re wrong

Sick of transparency
And dissemblance too
Sick of pronouns
Of ‘I’ and ‘you’

Sick of words
Silence is no better
Sick of their hold on
existence enfettered

Sick of insanity
And the myth of health
Of having to live
By means of stealth

Sick of all who rhyme
As if words could help
Sick of nausea
Of sickness itself