To The Masters Of Pretentious Verse

Write what you will,
But your lines do not impress -
Your metaphors, hyperboles
And anaphoras do not contribute
Anything to my life
Or anyone else's -
You glorify madness
But have never seen
The frighteningly real
Darkness of the mind -
You're just buffoons
Proclaiming shallow
Prophecies that are
Dime a dozen, while
Your captive audience
Of comfortable middle class
Feels safe with the parameters
Of your fake madness
And artificial breath stops -

Your verses won't be missed -
There is no life or joy
To be derived from anything
You pretend - just hollow
Amusement from language
Perturbation - nothing more.

Good luck, my friends,
You have nothing to teach me
About being alive
Or living poetry -

For you, too, are dead
In all your self-importance
And hollow words.


November 12,2005

by Alexander Shaumyan

Comments (2)

Don't blame me.....as I'm simply another victim.....of this cruel world....and its troubles.
a fine poem hope you weren't talking of my scribbling but well expressed and words which I share keep up the good work