Look at you,
Standing on your soapbox,
Singing your verses with an eloquent arrogance,
With a voice so full of emotion,
Or the lack thereof.
What makes you believe that your are gifted
Beyond all reality and all humanity?
You are nothing but the same as I,
And the men to your sides.
Your poems are a cry, a lamentation
To a disillusionment felt by all others.
You sit in the center of a semicircle reading your poems
To an eager and sympathetic crowd of liars and fools.
Still, your poetry will amount to nothing,
Be stacked on a bookshelf, if you are even given that honor.
And even if you manage to transcend the annals of time,
Schoolboys will read your poems,
Then burn the books.