the self-righteous face-off

let me tell you in Your Poker Face the truth I reached
at three in the morning clutching my doll (yeah, i gotta doll)
and trying to sleep:

the reason you don’t like my poetry isn’t because
I’m eighteen and write like your precious Father should have written
(holy word and wholly heard);

the reason you refuse to comment me (please?)
is not because I fucked up the last
onetwothree ten lines of this poem;

the reason, I know, is not even that I still don’t know what the fuck
Iambic Pentameter is (I don’t!),

the reason you dislike my poetry is because
you can’t tickle words and make them
cream their every syllable/
orgasm their vowels,
(scream their pho-ne-tic spelling) like I can,

(and I don’t believe a word I just said)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s