the witch doesn't burn in this one

I did not enjoy poetry that much. I always thought that school had destroyed any love for it I had. Now, I realise that there was another reason: I had never before read poetry that spoke to me. I am glad I came across this book, and the previous one, (as well as poems from Dimoula and Rupi Kaur). Now I know that there is poetry for me. Poetry that is fuelled by rage and fire. I loved this one.

I started out thinking I'd like this more than the first volume, but after like twenty pages I could hardly bear it anymore. This is the same fucking phrase over and over again. And I'm still of the opinion that this is not poetry.