When you cut open Your veins, the blood That oozes is always A shock of crimson red. And when you hang yourself, Your neck will crack. Body will bulge, covered in Excreta you'll stink. There's nothing called A poetic end. There's no refinement To the crudity of it. It will hold your face in Its hands and stare you Like Anthracite coal- The blackness of it will Stick its tongue to make Your throat thick- pull your Intestine to choke you on Your own breath and Command you to count Numbers in reverse. So when the next time One of those poets tries to Serve you pain in an Ornate thali- Hiding the crude redness And snapped neck of it- Between the shades of Water Lilies and Bougainvillea pink. Take a moment to reconsider The romanticism. Either give him a hug to Absolve him from his Own pain. Or better Kick on the nuts Till he clenches his gut. For caricaturing pain into Cute dolls to plant them In people's minds like Time bombs.