Really? Is that your deep, profound take on the world?
And do you expect me to read your words –
rhyming or not, rhythmic or not –
and sit back, amazed at the splendor you have created?
Be honest, you do! You think everyone
Should stop everything they’re doing to revel in your words,
To bask in the glow of your majestic creation,
To go “wow” and “whoa” and “man, that’s deep.”
I can see you now, sitting there after finishing your poem,
Leaning back in your desk chair staring at 209 words,
Rereading them out loud under your breath
And smiling contentedly at the little tricks you’ve used:
Alliteration and assonance, imagery and symbol,
Synecdoche and metonymy (whatever those words mean!).
You’ve established tone and crafted harmonious verse,
Carefully choosing words for their sounds and shapes
And above inverting syntax you certainly are not!
You were the kind of kid who started speaking in
Thees and thous because thou didst think
Ye mayhap might be the Shakespeare of thy generation.
Poppycock! Malarky! Other k-sounding cacophony!
Because here’s the truth, Baby Ruth: A poet of note you ain’t.
You’re a pretentious douchebag, and this poem I wrote
Is a damn sight more true to life than anything you’ve ever writ.