Poetry is a scam.

Every line can’t rhyme.

I just don’t have the ham

Or the goddamn time.

I cannot stress enough

Poetry is a facade.

This poem might be rough,

Proving poetry is flawed.

Maybe rhyming’s fine,

But you can’t expect much more.

Because when you write a line,

It’s basically doing a chore.

I’d write meaningful shit

But I’d just be overdramatic

Instead I guess this is it

It’ll probably end up in your attic.

Whitman’s poems bored me, I fear

Thoreau was over the top.

The garbage by William Shakespeare,

Thine poetry thou should stop.

Oh captain, my captain?

What the hell is that?

This poetry I am entrapped in

I regard as language’s doormat.

In summary I’d like to say

Without a shadow of a doubt

Poetry is my ashtray

Where I put my metaphorical cigarettes out.

This poem is for my fellow peers

Who hate on poetry too

Because in just a couple years

I’ll have an anti-poetry barbecue.

p.s.

This poem is my ode

To words not yet said.

Their utterance builds a road

To whatever lies ahead.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Poetry and I?

Looks like I’m a hypocrite

Poetry, my battlecry.