I hate you
because your poems end in rhyme
your prose is feeble and weak
when i read your words
i wish your hear you voice
spoken to me
the passion
the anger
the pain
of a poet
for whom do we write these words?
a significant other
who's pants we wish to delve
or the demon on my shoulder
the shiver of my spin
my skeleton shudders at the thought
Ginsberg doesn't ring a bell?
I wear black.
because i am in mourning
of the arts you killed
a eulogy is in order
for the younger generation
grow duller the as they age
mind blunted
blunted
like the blade of wit for which i weep
no longer lines cut like blades
but punch lines mashed up with terrible rhymes
i've never heard a poet
but a comedian bard upon the stage
i wish to laugh but instead i lament
i cry for the youth walk the pavement
eyes turned inward
ears sealed shut
little white buds
to fill walls of their skull with more endless rhyme
convincing them that
this ****
THIS **** RIGHT HERE
RIGHT HERE IS ART
so please, dont let me into my zone
for i'll take that mic from your hands
and shoot your down
drop to your knees
and die
for not an artist lives
for the future
my future
our future
is thoroughly ******