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.