The art of being humorously disagreeable*~ Amitav

Middle-class, educated, better than all of you. The poet
whines that the people he said were his friends
were his friends. Too eager to stick it to the man, his sentences end
where he pleases.

Not understanding, as his peers are hurt when insulted,
he blames the age to which he was born
of his troubles. He should have been born in the fifties.
Absolutely nothing was wrong with the fifties.

Love is not a safe place. It is not the taste of their name
coughed by the cancerous lung, drowning in overused metaphors.
A lover is not a tool, to take you in and give you everything
they have, to spew a 'better' person next year.

Death is not the endless peace, nor the bliss,
nor the torture nor infinite void. It is the end, no matter
how artistically short you write each line,
and none of it mattered.

So I'm going camping—
Hooray!
I just hope I don't  
Stay bored all day.

So I'm sleeping on hard ground—
Whoopee!
I just hope it doesn't
Get to me.

So I'm getting family time—
That'll be great!
The best thing that'll happen
Will be the memories we make.

Everyone knows a poem must rhyme,
A common accepted fact,
No doubt about that,
Slant rhymes and word play is fine...
But i hate reading poems that dont,
End in a rhyme.

I am alone.

No time, no patience,
But all the time and patience to feel like I do.

I am a *****.

No shame, no regrets.
But all of the shame and regret comes from the memories and worry.

I am a *****.

No cooperation, no final word.
But the cooperation of my final words leave me isolated.

Who else am I?