Bloody Inspiration There is a strong smell of guilt that surrounds a poet when he writes about disaster; because out of all the vessels he could’ve shelled inspiration from He found it in the sight of blood and trauma, Of bombings and shootings, murder and rape! I cannot ignore the inspiration that overflows in coloured pixels, making crystal clear an exploded Manchester, a bleeding Paris and an almost non-existent Aleppo. I cry, I cry for you concert-goers who lively entered the arena and left lifeless. I cry for you diners, whose stomachs were fed with bullets instead of your daughter’s first pay check. I cry for you, oh innocents, whose city fell on you before you even knew its name. I am human, before artist and I ought to feel, before I’m inspired,
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