Only For Show
I’m a Type A Poet,
literarily incorrect
In the company of fools,
my pen goes for their neck
They sing to the choir,
while we cry and spill blood
Their trash in the fire,
their lies in the mud
The things that we struggle with,
just folly to them
As their dilettante pleadings,
ramble on and pretend
Their self psycho-analysis,
and the time that they steal
Turn to dead broken promises,
masking what they can’t feel
The thing they most run from,
we welcome inside
As they tunnel and burrow,
trying harder to hide
And their one greatest fantasy,
for us never to know
That their self-proclaimed mastery
—was at best just a show
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
