for V,
who commissioned me,
Nay,
Dared Me,
sometime ago
to write a ***** poem

You know V?

The one poet who wrote:

         The anxious tide within my head
           was put there by the moon,
           the ocean too, its waves of blue,
           respond to what she says

Or
          The moon is alive and effeminate,
            pulls on us, pushes on us,
            at least on us who call her mother,
            and though she shines her sweet shine
            her soul is as cold and indifferent as
            the belly of a black hole,
            and we will war with her influence
            all the days of our life.


well compared to that,
writing something shat
should be
Easy


well I'm sorta sure
something can be
found easy enough
to fill the bill,
such a command
inherent demands
careful consideration,
a ***** poem,
not easy to come by,
every fiber resistant,
but you judge,
as you always do

Option #1

What makes a good poem?

what makes me so
succumbed to my own surety,
my bold audacity to dare judge
is simple rooted:

slapped and gasped,
verbal issuance of ooh's and aah's
from eyes, my utter everything,
teared and torn, cleansed and aroused,
into a poetry world,
this my one my house of worship,
my real religion

when I read good works,
like those of the moon's misbegotten,
Mr. V,

then I am grounded,
kneed in the groin of the head,
and I thank god really,
for gifting me the body
prepared and ready
to say I love those
who love words
with ready ease
and let this be my
simplest, cleanest, beloved
tribute poem ever I writ,
my claim to a
PhD in poetry criticism


Option #2

I am mad
cause I am sad
my roller coaster ride brain
is all ****** up

don't  know why I am sad.
it might be better
by sharing how I am feeling

in between
texting my friends
and ***** yes!
gonna post those texts
as my next terrific poem
awesome,
call it
#asstag
and gonna give it
to my
English Teqcher