The Poverty I Am Saddest About....

(he shouts about politics, while we have here about poetry) ....he read that mine poetry about this poverty the stupidity started scolding me declared instantly me-moi as its enemy its words, so absurd a lunatic so terrific not its area nor its section I oft write in Dutch and this is mine declaration I do now one step lower from "it" I step a bit lower down to "his" his profession does not read poetry but he thought he could read poetry poesy and poems true very pity not his art nor his profession he meddles in everything mine poetic wings, not his thing Oft to my Queendom he comes he thinks he could reign me that was his greatest mistake he thought he could read I too thought that he could read but....I was mistaken mine loved friend said he loves to read I too thought that he loves to read it seemed so, it looked so but....I was mistaken after having walked amongst this poverty I must conclude in tears and tragedy this is the worst and most tragic comedy I ever knew after my literal study after he read my poetry in the darkest café while drinking wild wine he copied the full title of mine poetry "Saddest about the poverty nowadays" and instantly mailed me, that I started talking about politics I thought he could read poetry but....I was mistaken my loved one never knew the alienating appearance of this blind male I wrote about true poetry and its poverty he associated with politics once again here I repeat my last poem's title "Saddest about the poverty nowadays" his unwanted eyes are peeping constantly copying my poem, the constant liar he read mine poetry I wrote about the poverty in poetry instantly he started shouting about politics just like this fake person he has that poverty I have in mind about vocabulary, grammar, and all that kind I thought he could read poetry I was mistaken he was peeping constantly at mine poetry I wrote about words, nouns the present and the past and all the tenses it pained all my senses when he accused me of politics of yelling at innocent persons shouting at innocent poets not mine strife in this forsaken life I am suffering from pain restrained I thought he was clever I am now mistaken forever Oft I asked my lover do you wish to know who he is? he is all there darkest is, except God's Bliss a constant stalker, an insane chatter an aliphatic androgyne appearance this is the biggest difference…. Photography by Sylvia Frances Chan: "Winter-Mourning Landscape" © Sylvia Frances Chan Copyright Protected AD.Wednesday the 17th of January 2018. @ 8.43 hrs.A.M. West-European Time