Poetry isn't Dead

I found the power of my convictions exhausting

I could no longer breathe
colors were melting off everything
all black and white
like my old thirteen inch screen TV
utensil in hand I ponder
picking ideas out through my ear
regurgitated some on the paper in front of me
I am a poet, therefor I write
I am an artist, there for I paint
I am human, therefor I suffer
from suffering comes great art and words
words fall off my tongue like venom from a fang
splattering the parchment
a band-aid for my cut carotid
a tragedy in red
in the aftermath of things
are written the words
poetry isn't dead