Tell me… What makes a poet? …A fancy degree
And a membership in an elite social class?
Does it take someone saying so who has some clout
Who has gained it by keeping its collegiate snout
Up society’s snobbish and arrogant ass?
I can not be a poet. It’s not how I see.
I don’t get others’ ‘poetry.’ I think it sucks!
Words were made to make some sense. That’s not how it works
In the psychotic business of speaking one’s mind.
The right asshole can blast ‘class work’ through its behind
And as long as it’s blessed by some suit-and-tied jerks
Then the next thing to do is to try to earn bucks.
All you established ‘poets’ – You Fart In The Wind!
What are disjointed phrases and meter askew
And the fancy word graphics supposed to tell me?
You ain’t talkin’ to me, assholes! Now I can see
That my quest to be knighted one wasn’t thought through.
If the feeling is mutual, I’m not chagrined.
Poets piddle in bullshit. Artists of that kind
Are swept up in their egos and all of their fans
Knowing not that without them, their work is like mine
But deficient in meaning. My work is just fine.
I’ll stop calling mine poetry and wash my hands
Of the need to identify. I’m undefined.
When I write, I am straight up. I want to make sense
And I’d like it to swing with a natural beat.
In high school I had learned but a few basic things.
Nowadays, shit is different. My effort brings
A profound realization. License to excrete
Is not something I want now. Fuck all the pretense.