I think about it, *******,
And it leads me to this place.
Teeth all clenched and aching now,
From shouting in your face.
I told you, I ******* hate poetry.
But you poets listen, and then you don't.
You can't, you never will,
Touch me with your sentiments,
Dropped at my windowsill.
******* your muse, her wells of eyes,
Just **** the ***** and be done.
Stiffen readers with the tale,
But don't count me as one.
Your Dulcinea's sweet and, well,
(She's better than the last…)
You're dying for a future now,
Not living in the past.
For sweet Art's sake, a nest of lies,
The poverty of self,
puts You up high and lost, in shadow,
and Pining, on the shelf.
So speak your mind now, if you must,
Aloud, to no avail.
Your nature blind of clever words,
Is always bound to fail.
I'm fortunate that some of my friends despise poetry but still seem to tolerate me, personally. One of these wrote to me recently, "WES... I ******* hate poetry... Make that the title of one of your poems..."
...so, I did. This one is for her.
She will never read it because she cannot abide poetic verse.
I told her that I'd be sure not to share it with her.
She replied, "GOOD".
She's the best.
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