I’m a Type A Poet,
  literarily incorrect

In the company of fools,
  my pen goes for their neck

They sing to the choir,
  while we cry and spill blood

Their trash in the fire,
  their lies in the mud

The things that we struggle with,
  just folly to them

As their dilettante pleadings,
  ramble on and pretend

Their self ******-analysis,
  and the time that they steal

Turn to dead broken promises,
  masking what they can’t feel

The thing they most run from,
  we welcome inside

As they tunnel and burrow,
  trying harder to hide

And their one greatest fantasy,
   for us never to know

That their self-proclaimed mastery
   —was at best just a show

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)