// Меня безумно злит поэзия как феномен поэтому вот вам стихи про то что меня злит в поэзии. В коммах прочитала чтобы не казалось что оно без рифмы ритма и тд


I’m not a poet.
I’m just somebody who pretends to be

I can’t put rhyme in things I feel,
Cannot know sense in what I see.

I’m not a poet, I just hold letters in my hands.
And then I spill them.
In pure innocence.
Desiring for them fates I cannot grasp.
Markups. Questions. Dust and rust.

What means to be a poet in my head
Is to believe in what you said,
And know its worth, and hide its value.
Then put your ego on the menu
And ask for seconds, then for thirds,
Soups, ragouts, and deserts.

A poet then has to pretend that life is endless,
But meaningless to them in all that matters,
So they can throw some words in — and exempt
The definition from that ugly smelt
That we call language.

They can’t know one. Missile barrage
Shows them their place. Call embarrassed
Children to defend themselves!
Against the law that says forgiveness is the trait common to thieve-ness!
But leave them, stripped to bare
Feet.
Ankles.
“Temples, Kid,
That’s what you build for heroes
Of our fleet.
Your generation has no measure,
It lacks precision. Still, entreasure
Funds of letters to their hands.”

So I can spill them! In defence,
To try installing little sense
And rhyme some wordsies
Into cursives.

For instance, now my poem’s due.
And my pretending — now it’s you.
It’s your job now to try be free.

I’m not a poet, as you see.