Butter-baste in haste
For better poet-taste
Pronounced as mastery:
It goes down fast
Poetic firsts shall be last
Poetry's straitjacket, unlaced
Lack of meaning showcased
I just vomited it up
(for your erudite perusal)
*** I'm like SO totally embarrassed.
Just found out how "poetastery" is actually pronounced.
I'm all LOL just like ***.
Fer reelz. ☺♪☻☺☻ ♪♫
don't inflict me with your
dangerous, idle, self-reflection,
tap out of my headspace
my cerebral territory is not a good place
I don't need to think about my thinking
metacognition is a fruitless mission
I'm telling you now
an award winning poem
inside of my mind
where no one else goes
darkened and shady
flowers run wild
while fears plant their seeds
i quietly sit
spaced out and relieved
empty voices speak
notes too high to hear
other times louder
than a scream to the ear
windows glow yellow
the moon sometimes too
mostly alone, unless i think of you
i’m walking down roads
alone and afraid
an empty hand
a shovel-less *****
toxic is the blood
that feeds off my thoughts
memories and wishes
destroyed and distraught
a kiss far too much
an embrace miles away
waking and sleeping
night turns to day
how quickly you fall
under the spell
cast by the call
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *******. There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral regrets.
Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian *****. Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.
This has been a poetic public health reminder.
A poetic rant for HP.
is what's in my heart, why
did you promise till death do us part?
Play the tape through
I'll keep the possibility
in my back pocket
Behind the black line is where I stand
Outside the context is where I am lost
When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
ends in esthetic in-fighting.
These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.
You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…
I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
is but an artistic atrocity.
You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
I have always been a writer.
When I was younger
I thought my ability to write
Was finite. I thought
My creativity would dry up
Like a pond in summer.
Now I realize the number
Of stories you write is not limited
To the number of pages you have
Or the amount of ink in your pen.
Creativity is the wind around us:
Although you can never really catch it:
You feel its presence on your skin
Even though it's not always present,
It's always certain to return.
I will always be a writer.
— The End —