I wrote a poem recently.
Not so much a poem,
more like a story;
a story of love,
kind of like a love story.
Sure,
it was the best love story
we've never read.

There were romances,
struggles,
some revelations
and resurrections...
even a few bruised egos.
Blah,
blah.

Yessir,
a bayside view of
false paradise
if I'd ever seen one;
some dogeared page
ripped out of a
journal written in ink
and found in the gutter.

No beginning or end.
Just a thought.
A memoir
of a fantasy that should've just
been
and never had to explain itself.

I stayed but you left
I waited but you didn't come
Your ego is more than our love I guess
Fine good for you cause your ego
Ain't gonna buy my love

You were born with a ticket
For an ego-trip;
Languished on the axis
Of the Id Grid;
Dryed your hair with a comb
Before the vanity mirror.
That's how it was
When we were at home.
You fit many uniforms.
You never learned;
Never broke stride,
Now
You say good-bye.
Re-wind,
On slow-mo,
Review the moves
Then go.
Flip the rear view mirror;
It's bigger than you.

They seek and they seek,
Meek, bleak, and they speak,
That the ones who can are the ones who reek,
Only a fraud for that one is unique,
To their eyes, but not to the peak,
Those who see, whom like to tweak,
With machines of life and of the cheek,
Words that arouse the minds obliques,
Through visions and laws where there is no physique,
Just all even from odds that creak.

Bruised and battered egos:
Retaliations –
Flaming tornadoes spiral up to stormy skies.
Mixed metaphors of caviar and custard
Maelstrom mightily around the mountains of Hell.

Trolling is appalling
And flaming burns.

Let go of that ego
Is my advice.

Be humble from the start.
No-one is great enough
To be beyond reproach
Or criticism.

Who cares how good or otherwise I am?
Who cares what anyone says
About my work?

I am what I am,
End of story.
To Describe what I am is fine:
See those metres, verses, rhymes
And metaphors.
Dismantle me if you wish,
But (please) put me back together.

No-one should stand in judgement,
Except maybe God,
With His bright wide wings.

So stop the abuse,
And sourceless insults.
Cease the condemnation,
Or stand to be IGNORED.

Paul Butters

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
not that they're that way
all the time and not
that it's a bad thing.

but it's expected for
anyone with a mind loud
enough to put words together
in an artistic manner and
assume that others
actually want to read them.

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
even if only on paper.