Poems are useless for those who aren’t writers

And twice as pointless for those people who are

All of the effort to find the perfect rhyme

It’s foolish to me; what a waste of time!

I could be

Much more eloquently

Expressing my thoughts in cultured prose

Saying the things that everyone knows

But nobody knows quite how to say

After all, isn’t that the role of writers today?

Stopping and stammering at the end of each line

Trying to fit words into rhythmic time

Talking faster and faster till I lose my breath

Continuing this poem could lead to my death

By asphyxiation, what a sad way to go;

My God, how I know that I should’ve stuck to prose!

And everyone thinks that they can be a poet

They pontificate and rhyme and let everyone know it

Creating a riot, there’s blood in the streets

As poets fight on for the perfect beat 

To which they will march into the ranks of forever

And the efforts are valiant but I think it’d be better

If we called this all off and just went back home

Found ourselves and our minds in the silence alone

Without rhyming and pressure and search of praise

What a hypocrite I am, look how I’ve spent my days

But I have gone crazy and you surely will too

If you search for an answer but ignore all the clues

That urge you to run far from all that you know

You’re looking for logic in the madness you sow

And what am I saying, I’ve lost all my mind

Maybe I am the madness and poetry is fine