Pretencious (pencil) Points

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about poets and non-poets.

Submitted: February 06, 2013

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Submitted: February 06, 2013



Writing is hard, but poetry is harder. Often, poets don’t even know what they’re trying to say or the true meaning behind their own words. Sometimes you try to express your meaning too quickly and it comes out fast and clumsy. Sometimes you try to hide it in complex subtleties so minute that it goes unnoticed altogether. And poetry without meaning is just a tin can hanging from an old lawn mower. It has no use and makes no sense.

So cheers to you, oh destroyer of poetry. You, who squeezes dry the necessary gravitas of every metaphor you meet, letting them hang stiffly, grossly wedged between two ineloquent verbose syndicates with little merit.
You, who clamps down hard on each petty adjective, like a rusted bear trap, snapping shut on each joyous vestige of possibility once subtly hidden in the complexities of each word.  
You think yourself a poet because you scrawl a flock of unrelated context clues shrouded in an oily casing of pretentious mockery, obnoxiously alluding to men whose weaknesses far outweigh your strengths.
You see art as cliche because true art makes no impact on you- does not stir your wounded soul or repair your broken stanza.
Instead, you form imbecilic passages for hard hearted students of life to grasp and cry over in heated ecstasy letting you give word and name to their unmitigated angst, capitalizing on the very qualities that make them malleable prepubescent cork boards of emotion.
Your emotions are wax castings of what true observations and feelings should be- cardboard scenery behind misused plastic props in a borderline racist suburban school production of “The Wiz”.

Words that shrivel up and scurry away from you are the same words that connect and blossom before a true poet’s mind can even think of them.
You kill them and your written voice drains them of all substance and clarity, but a true poet can make your mundane passage sing.
You are bogged down in impression and form, trying to make something good when every bit of your expertise already exists.
You cannot recreate perfection and yet you continue to try. To ‘try’ is to fail already with your leaking quill burying itself into the selfish pale lines of your 5 star college ruled notebook paper.
You embed your loquacious words into tight spaces like thick needles into your palms so that you can lap up the expected drabs of oxygen deprived liquidated cells starving for recognition, splattering themselves crudely all over your canvas.
You work at it.
You scrub and scrape and scribe and script calls and responses trying to correct nature’s disorder without purpose or permission. The effects make you sick, cause you a vomitous reunion with the bowels you so cavalierly regurgitated into the hearts and minds of our most impressionable.  
Your words drip snidely like the stringent venom of a dying wasp, punching holes in the crumbling drywall still standing in those areas too depressed to actually live in.
Your ideas do not warm or relax or open, but rather leave vacant stares through gaunt, bottomless sockets of the ghosts attempting to shower themselves in your malignant repartee.
You devour originality and replace it with contrived circumstance and overdrawn accounts of mediocre punctuation and verbiage.
You stumble callously through the burnt parchments of our predecessors, tearing holes in their wisdom and unabashedly parading their geniuses as mistakes; tossing them in the air like confetti on an over celebrated holiday.
Your intent to travel to the farthest reaches so that you can invade what few undignified observations you already possess with fortid tales of ancient lands that you’ve taken the time to google-image-search is a mockery of what honest exploration once was.
Do not stand there gaping incredulously at the wasted wall space on which you’ve carelessly flung your reptilian excrement offensively masquerading as something resembling art. It makes you look ridiculous.

You pollute. You scream. You grovel and wait for trivial material successes and lash out when none arrive.
You wish to cut out tongues and lacerate the ancient monarchs of your craft.
You can un-choose but you refuse and abuse and misuse a common meter or trifled rhythm, stifling a natural wave of sound as it crests and falls and transforms into plastic recyclable pellets cascading like detergent into bound shut eyes, hearts, and spirits.
You waste your time and life.

Poets transform the mind with their written fervour. Their words have a taste and melody all their own, striking harmonic chords that initially sound wrong until one realizes there was no other chord ever meant to be played for that moment.
A poet’s words are jagged knives bowing on ancient strings creating a familiar texture of sounds which have never been heard.
Quality poetry causes destruction, can repair armageddon, and can alter the physical states of truth and beauty. To write it, one must possess the gift of a wandering optic nerve attached directly to the churning water mill of flowing ideas and light around the sensitive artistic part of the brain. It is not enough to merely see. One must hear the sky and taste the sounds and feel the colors. One must live in their poetry and know that what they have to say cannot be said by anyone else.
A poet does not know. A poet is.
A poet needs to be.

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