Poem#7 – Fuck.
I really started out following today’s prompt, which is amazing, but these marathon poems tend to have a mind of their own…
Fuck.
Too much knowledge
upsets the balance of time
You become an anachronism
Not that people would believe
your prophetic ramblings
anyway.
Some found that out the hard way.
For example,
no one needs to know
with absolute certainty
what really happens
after you die
It’s like telling people
there’s a free five star hotel
around the corner from
your shitty ass pay-by-the-hour
room.
Who the hell would stick around?
We all just came here
to fuck, anyway.
To touch feel see taste smell
something not so perfect
but perfectly
human
Black Satin 
Very true, Jaque.
Sorry for misspelling your name, Jacque. Just got up.
Thanks Tony, I appreciate the comment.