Poets Are Pricks

We don’t talk about it much, my poet friends and I.
Maybe we’re embarrassed. Or maybe we just know it’s true.
There’s no reason to give voice to things everybody knows
So we keep this to ourselves. We’d never tell you.

But I’m going to tell the secret (it really isn’t one, you know)
and then you can feel as if you’re in on it too:
Poets are pricks. There, I’ve said it in plain language.
Every one of us is a prick, through and through.

See, we say the words in such a way that they can’t be ignored,
And we are mega-skilled at getting our messages through.
We prick that precious bubble that you surround yourself with,
And we explode your limited worldview.

Suddenly you’re not safe from dangerous ideas!
We make you feel what is real! Now you know what you knew!
The world is terrifying! and magnificent!
And right there in the center of everything: You.

 

 

(Some notes: I like this idea a lot. I like the alliteration of the title and the fact that people who read the title are going to think I am using a minor vulgarity when in truth I am not. And I do think that poetry makes people reconsider the world and their place in it. I need to do some finagling at the end, probably add another stanza to really bring the idea home, maybe do something else with the idea that the universal “You” is the focal point of all reality. I don’t know. But this is a pretty good first draft, I think.)

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