What Is It
What is it
You expect to see
When you string along
Verbs and gerunds to be?
Do you fancy yourself
A poet in history divine?
Do you really believe
Your verse is in time?
What is it, do you want to
Get from
All these poems
You call them
When really
There's none.
On a level that
Really no one else sees
You post another verse
And sit back and wait
While others dont feel.
No one gets me
Or heard me
I'm so above this
But deep down you know
You're not worth a kiss.
It's a sad, rainy day
As you write for yourself
They're really isn't
Anyone else.
But in your head
You can pat yourself on the back
And think i hope no one
sees I'm a hack.
But the truth is more hard
Like a mass on a tumor
Your poetry, alas,
Is solipsistic rumor.
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