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
Alexander Shaumyan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-masters-of-pretentious-verse/
