THE DEATH OF POETRY

i am the death  
of poetry  
 
who would think  
that an insignificant  
schmo like me  
could kill poetry,  
could wrap my  
cold clay fingers around  
poetry's slender neck  
and choke the life out of her  
or bludgeon poetry  
with my ratty old laptop  
or smother her  
with my pillow  
during still another  
dark night of the soul  
but i did it --  
stabbed her repeatedly  
with a shiv  
carved from a mechanical pencil  
and then just sat there,  
covered in a spatter of words,  
words staining my clothes  
dripping from my  
word stained fingers  
and splashed across poetry's  
pristine walls  
wondering if i should  
pick up my guitar  
and kill music, too