I am sick of poetry—
its useless, meaningless strings
of words
elegantly dressed in profound tailored suits
of gaudy fabric.
Who is this who speaks against the soul—
ignorant and foolish, deriding the gem
of thoughts vibrantly propounded into motley lines of literary art?
Ha! Literary art?
Similes are like a bad joke,
alliterations are agitating,
personification ***** and,
hyperboles are more horrid than death
Poems are not simply stanzas of well-contrived writing
Of fanciful sentences stretching the mind.
Each letter spells purpose,
Then in the right lighting
Reads entirely different
Yet still masterfully designed
It is simplicity secreted beneath heaps of perplexity
and effortless rhyme,
bombastic diction contorting
the most puerile of deliberations into virtuosity—
two-dimensional make-up of verbiage—
flinging arbitrary words and
lines left
and
right
Christmas
The entire concept is ludicrous.
A
rhyme
goes deeper
than its sound,
and
a single word
normally goes deeper
than its context suggests.
A random
notion may not be
as arbitrary an idea as one
primarily
assumes
it to be.
Nothing is simple about it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just like I said
It’s easy to do.
******
Hypocrite
Misled
Piece of ****
Ignorant
Foolish fiend
Virulent
Philistine
Infantile
Aberrant
Juvenile
Miscreant!
True poetry at last!
Stripped down to pure emotion
A lovely middle finger manicured just right
The quintessence of feeling etched with furious care
Thought and emotion woven together to make an unlikely masterpiece
And so it is discovered: the marriage of two conflicting entities can and will engender beauty.