The death of Poetry

They have carefully
slit my skin with razors,
and dipped me into salted water.
I do not scream.

They have removed my skin,
exposed my raw muscle,
and thrown me onto the concrete.
I do not weep.

I do not refuse the meeting.
I cannot hurt concrete.
It is cold, hard, and dead.
I do not feel.

They have created my ideas,
corrected my purpose,
deadlined the muse.
I do not think.

The poetry is dead.
They are vendors,
And I create their good.
My veins will be your IV.