Death of the Author 

Death of the Author 

This is a cup that will never runneth over nor runneth dry. 

And forever, the tides of literature shall clash upon each other. Good and bad, we shall always make more– as long as words exist and as long as a sentence is a sentence, and meaning can beat from a heart, we shall always secrete the nectar of poetry from the flowers of life and grow infinitely drunk on them. 

There will never be a day where my thirst can be clenched. In the afterlife, I will publish another manuscript with joss paper and communion waffles and pray that Satan will let me sing a song or two to my grandchildren. 

I will condense the world into my words and eat them, again and again. Chew on my words, spit them out, vomit metaphors and seduce similes, abuse alliterations and whamplabam!!! onomatopoeia. This is all I have left, besides my O level cert and my top notch brain.

And if my words taste different under my tongue compared to yours, so be it. Not everyone will enjoy cilantro. 

Regardless, I will yap | ramble | waffle | chatter until the world ends in a bang or a whimper– until blood sweeps the horizon in a reckless fashion. 

I hope ghosts shall continue to hark poetry to my grave and tell me that poetry is rupi kaur and no longer Silvia Plath. Colleen Hoover and not Shakespeare. And my heart will break. But I give myself up to the ebbing and flowing of this nectar, because

who am I to tell you not to pick your own poison?

14 August 2024