Poetry As Meta
What is poetry, if it doth not rhyme,
If it doth not possess a meter or time
What separates poetry and mere lines
That run parallelly and don’t intertwine.
Everyone is a “poet”
With an artistic license
But I’d rather prefer
If they hid in silence
I’d be able to handle their potpurri
If my mind were dazzled with vivid imagery.
But no! They choose to depict reality
With intense suffering and a dead baby.
Why does your verse have to be so plain
Your rants are so terse and drive me insane.
Rhyme makes everything crackle and snap
Elevates even the worst piece of crap
Maybe only I must feel this way
The shitstorm hasn’t stopped, it’s here to stay
But that’s the power of poetry, ultimately
A word or two,
Big or small
Or nothing at all
Nuggets of thought
Or thoughtful nuggets.
Daydreams with pot
Or a potful of daydreams.
Written in a second
(Like this one is)
Written in your head
Written the moment before you go to bed
Poetry is like clay
There’s no right way
There’s no way to say
How to write one
That just pulls out the fun
Of trying what works
And what doesn’t
And that’s what you mustn’t do
Make writing work
Like everything else you do.
I just realized that this
Is a rant containing cries
From my head, out of desperation
To craft the next poetic sensation
Which is pointless, an impossible complication
To resolve with such expectation
For myself, to fascinate
Minds and penetrate
Souls with the tenacity that generates
An emotional response.
Don’t you see?
There’s no point to this poem, stop right now.
There never was, and never will be
Because I realized what is poetry
Is poetic discovery
Of everything, even the tragedy
Of the horribly mundane.
Or documenting the exploits of David Blaine.
As I write this, it has a beat,
A pulse, like rap
There’s a crackling snap
Even without rhyme
Maybe that’s where the poetry is
Between the lines.
Okay, I’m blabbering now,
I’m out of time.