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
Login or register to post a comment.