I Still Have Poems Inside Me

It's a phenomenal view from this mind;
as dark as an adjective's machine gun precision -
a social butterfly trapped in clouds.
I stutter reclusive temples of bullet-proof agony,
and society spills dead leaves down my throat,
worldly experience explodes the television's winks,
pandemics and medics with blood on their hands,
foreign lands waving to these comfort zones,
with a button's magnificence we can zoom right in-out.

Buttered-battered negotiations strike knowledge
while laughter screams music from other lives,
in the hives of a tower-block mentality.
Don't kill me yet, I still have poems inside me,
you can torture them out or caress them,
I will not give a damn which way you choose.
Pop all those reincarnation dreams,
let their gas foul the present's humility,
shake a false smile from your lips and then cry.