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)


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