Poem

Articulation failing.
Compensation for my ego--dead.
All I can write are essays,
and poetry is perhaps too dead to me to be bothered.
Lines, verses, modes of scansion.
A meter dropped around a poem.
Is not a poem indeed.
And neither is this.
Too many think that this is poetry,
and it's not.
It's too personal to be poetry.
Too contemplated, and too perfect.
Poetry has an eerie imperfection to me.
So imperfect, because it represents the poet's own weakness,
and I'm not weak--I'm just bored.

They have some things solved, that I don't care to solve.
Fifty years to write something, that isn't even beautiful to most,
but beautiful to the pretentious elect--who can tell you what beauty is.
A professor, or a journalist--they allegedly have the eye or ear to know,
and unfortunately, they mustn't have the knowledge to know that no one cares.
I know poetry is perfect in other ways, but it has an internal conflict.
A story of compromised length, and leaves a reader wondering, because it's never finished.
Fire and Ice, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, The Road Not Taken.
Robert Frost's poems always leave you wondering because the story isn't over.
It's imperfect, and that's what people want.
They want to wonder and discuss, their own pedantic interpretation, that no one cares about--but themselves.
Self-righteous nonsense, and my hate only grows for the written word.
Dead, and unloved--no funeral for it has come yet, because we're all living in a fantasy where literacy will matter.
Poetry is criminally dead.

I suppose some fool will still misinterpret this as a poem, and it never will be. Nothing this personal ever will be a poem.