Literature is a soup

Oh isn't your scarred mind an abstract art?

Aren't your poems a strong cup of black coffee in a world that is drunk on cheap wine and shallow love?

Aren't your words so deep that the ocean remains jeleous of you?

Well,

To quote Hamlet,

Act 3

Scene 3

Line 87

-No

They aren't.

All you ever do is muddy the water to make it seem deep.

But your shallow waters are too noisy for me.

Like a seaweed,

You tangle their minds,

Pulling us into the labyrinth of your cliched lines.

I've never been more insane than when i'm lost in the sanity of your words.

But apparently, not being able to move past the first few deep deep deep lines of your poem makes me a coward.

You write, "How can someone who cannot save himself save others?"

I say, suppose I have the key to your chains then why should your lock and my lock be the same?

You words get me so high, i feel like I could eat a star.

Impairing my thinking capacity just like alcohol.

You my friend, must understand.

Literature is a soup and your poems are freaking forks!