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Poetry Is
Poetry is stupid.
It always has been and it always will be.
If another stupid poet publishes another stupid work I'll scream and tear my hair out.
If I have to rip apart another poem and put its pieces back together I'll cry.
And no one can make me care about a single stupid verse
or a single stupid poem in some single stupid poet's life.
Poetry is not universal, poetry is isolating, poetry is look at my enormous ego and my so impressive tone.
Poetry is selfish and vain and vapid and look at me because I'm sad
and I deserve to be praised and loved.
Poetry rewards whining.
Ridiculous.
Poetry is a river Narcissus can admire himself in forever without ceasing?
Poetry is stuffing myself in every dress I see even when I rip their silk and velvet because it doesn't fit.
Do I care that it took hours to make?
That some grandmother or child wove or embroidered their heart into that fabric that I so cleverly forced myself into
like the gluttonous child I am, ripping the seams.
Do I care that they cry, do I care that I ruined it all?
No because poetry is selfish.
Because poetry is not the nice next-door-neighbor-who-let-you-use-their-swing-set.
Poetry is death
and poetry is cruel.
Poetry will pet your ego like a puppy.
Poetry is chained to your fingers like a slave to
its master.
And you are not a kind enslaver; you have ego, you have pride, you have stupidity.
Scratch that, poetry is not stupid, you are.
Copyright ©
Sonia Allen
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