Don't let my poetry be
like a Chinese painting
of chrysanthemums,
delicate water lilies,
nightingales.
Don't let it be
mystically sublime
like Zen thought.
Instead, let it scream
raw and uncut.
My canvas is not one of
pretty pastels,
lavenders and pinks
praising beauty.
I acknowledge beauty
yes, it exists
but while there is
too much ugliness
murder
torture
rape
I will color my poetry
with the shocking red
of blood
and clothe them in
the somber black
of mourning.