No title #2

I want to write the ugliest poem as well as the most beautiful poem because the beauty and the ugliness are two sides of the same coin. Writing ugly poetry is as difficult as writing beautiful poetry. When my classmates were playing football on the school ground, I was sitting alone in a damp library and reading a children edition of ‘Les Misérables’ again and again at the age of nine. People like tragedy and feeling pityness because it is as erotic as porno. I watched ‘Elephant Man’ at least five times. People like ugliness because it is sexy. Thinking about flowers, the buds open and blossom, then shrink to die as the time goes by. From what point can you say ‘it’s beautiful’ and at which phase does the ugliness begin? It’s all relative and dependant. There are a lot of beautiful poems and stories online and people like to read some pieces which is well written and which is easy to read, easy to understand. But I am writing in a difficult manner to read because I want you to read these sentences as if you were licking my words with your eyeballs. The title of this prose is ‘No title #2’ because I want to get your attention as little as possible. Where is ‘No title #1’? You can search it online, and it will be ranked on 48,663rd page of Google. Let’s talk about your favourite author, Stephen King. He also likes disgusting descriptions because it is a ‘trance’ to write disgracefulness. It is a drug. If writing is an addiction, reading is an addiction too. People like debating about the ‘freedom of expression’ because it is a soap opera which is as sweet as chocolate; I am not talking about the gender equality, I am talking about ‘Art’. My Queen Judith of Hearts tells me to break the skull and put my brain out, puke my stomach onto my pages. This is what I am doing when I am writing. I cannot keep writing away from me. Writing is my shadow which follows me wherever I go. If I were to stop writing right now as if this piece was going to be my last piece, and then, what would I do after tomorrow? There would be no other way than to become crumbling sands in the enormous time and space. But, I just want to ask you something before that, please tell me your reason. Why are you still standing by me at the end of this nonsense murmur of mine?