"overuses" poems
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
Every poet writes of
the moon as if they know her,
drinks coffee like water,
and overuses words that
they have never even said aloud
Because no one truly cares
what the writer felt,
if the interpretation
did not feel relative to the reader himself
An indent here,
a story about bruised knees,
a summer that should have never ended,
and love that should have
before it even began
A copy of a copy,
of a copy, of a copy
and no one seems to notice,
unless while reading,
they felt nothing similar
I could tell you I have flowers
sprouting from my rib-cage,
and a rabbit thumping away in my chest,
but if that means nothing to you
I become just another
****** wannabe internet writer
who failed to make
your heart-strings
resound
- S.G.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC