Uneasily Methphorically

I met a man who broke out in a sweat When I asked him to read my poems I thought it was odd to be so distraught I never saw this phenomenon His eyes looked long gone So: It got me thinking About: what's wrong with poetry Isn't: It about syllables we count and the timing in rhyming And: The smelling of dirt in organicly growing words With: Thoughts flowing underneath our surface Accompanied: By emotions exuding out of our being Then: The thought hit me he couldn't see Because: He didn't understand empathy he's the product of sociopathy So: I clicked my pen and went on to pretend That: What was deficient in him wouldn't affect the writing in me After: I went on to florish with my well chosen stories Then when: He still couldn't get them Low and Behold: I had to close my poems ................with "The End."