You may be physically stronger than me,
Perhaps you are saner than me,
Maybe even more honest than me,
But you accuse me of never being as exceptional as you are,
Never quite reaching your level of greatness.

You speak of your greatness,
As a poet,
Attempting to weave words,
Rhyme them,
Bend them to your will,
Trying to mirror what you see on TV,
Writing about blow jobs, *****, and benjamins,
You insist that you’re so deep,
When the deepest I’ve ever seen you go was inside of me.

You speak of your greatness,
As a man,
Boasting of how handsome you are,
Pointing out my ****** flaws,
But when you really look at yourself in the mirror,
You hate what you see,
You slapped me around,
Then say it’s my fault,
My stupidity.

I hate to be the one to tell you this,
As I was always told a real woman was supposed to build up a man,
I never want to be the killer of dreams,
But you don’t weave words,
You don’t bend them to your will,
They circle around you,
Too fast for you to catch,
You don’t have any benjamins,
Just some 20’s from your mother.
The only depth you’ll find in your soul is being ankle deep in *******.

I am far from perfect body and mind,
But I can bend words,
Weave them into things you could never imagine,
They flow from my pen,
From the sway of my hips,
Rolling off my tongue,
Oozing from my pores
Without even noticing,
I make poetry.


You are no poet,
And you sure are not a man