My head dips and my brain screams in fury;
The realization that what I’m reading has no meaning,
So, I succumb to the literary elitist
And my knuckles pale as I’m patronized
While my hand protests in convulsions
And my pencil eschews with palpitations.
That is my greatest grievance—
My vendetta against the lack of story
Random words fill the line,
Basically Mad Libs, but they call it poetry.
Why does it have to rhyme? And follow a “rule?”
And gosh dang it, why does every word need an epiphany?
The excessive use of verbiage angers me,
And the punctuation makes me gag.
But the worst assumption of all
The question that I detest, that I truly hate:
“What does this piece of poetry mean to you?”
