Don’t you dare call this a poem. Whatever it may be: cry for help, sheer desperation, attention-whoring, click-baiting, self-indulgence – it ain’t no poem. It ain’t no poem ’cause a poem’s got wings and legs and feet and movement and breadth and light – a poem is a goddamn angel – and this is an unholy, molten lava, red red beast from way underground. So don’t call it a poem. Especially since it’s about you and you know you ain’t down to be associated with poetry. Who really is down for that these days? Down to march through mired meter getting hands and knees all soiled trying to separate out crust-covered mixed metaphors which get you digging further and further ’till you’re so deep down you’re dripping sweat from the earth’s burning core? Naw, this ain’t no poem. This ain’t no metaphor. It’s about you. This ain’t no music. This is just some words looking for an open eye or ear and a nutritious brain to get down into, to take root, to propagate, to infiltrate, to overgrow and drag down deep like some devil weed.