No need for a glass of port,
I’ll do my best to keep this short.
Since no one is of the state of mind
Required in uttering a phrase socially unaligned.

You beg for a trace of hope.
While gazing down from your knotted rope.
Pleading desperately for a swift tomorrow
Where you’ll find the trending, sorrow. (#)

Speaking in broken prose
Through the depression found in a coke filled nose.
Believing, somehow, that your nonsense is lyrically inclined
Making up for a personality forcefully resigned.

You pat each other on your weightless backs,
Recognizing the talent your breed equally lacks.
Believing you possess the artist’s form
Sheltered inside of a cultural norm.

Acting only as others want
Altruistic beliefs quick to flaunt
Borrowed Teflon from rusted pots
Gambled away in, well reviewed, slots

Placate those with tales come and gone,
Running a gambit fit for a con.
“My heart weeps tears of reflected gold.”
Nonsense repeated until bought and sold.

Frost and Blake would have turned over in their graves
As Whitman’s ruined by a collective of ****** knaves.
A block paragraph without a rhyme in sight,
Climbing on backs of the old to a worrisome height.

Those blind will cough and scowl,
Finding this truth to be quite foul.
Just look at the forgeries they produce,
And soon the odour will become quite profuse

It’s not poetry because you say it is
Such a leap of faith would make it intrinsically His.
You use the magic of empty speech.
To strive for dreams you don’t work to actually reach.