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A Poem of Sorts
I'm really bored and losing the will to live.
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They say the art of poetry's lost,
And words should not be so easily tossed,
Though perhaps this sentiment was not heard,
By gothic.net's most dense and absurd.
For example, take a certain poet, unnamed
Whose work would make one shudder in pain,
But was recieved with civility, shockingly so,
From all but a tasteful few in the know.
But this bad role model for angst-ridden minds
Began to be popular and soon was consigned.
"Alas!" cried valiant JCC,
"Bukowski is greater than he!"
But to his words they took not heed,
And soon it was clear there was great need
For a gasp of clean air amongst sour clichés
And wit duller than Fall Out Boy's, if I may say.
Forth leapt Ms Ophelia, good and fair
Whose talent in writing was met with despair
From the inferior newbies, only consoled
By their iPods and their Internet trolls.
It seemed that the power of good was renewed,
'Til one of the many political feuds
Enticed the dark maiden to her rightful place,
Where she might shame and put to disgrace
Without condemnation by her peers
And the occasional moron's malevolent sneer.
The poetry threads were buried and left to rot
And soon the intelligence was forgot
Leaving only newbies about to be flamed
By Gothicusmaximus, who would take aim
And fire, destroying their wild fantasies
Of the joyful acclaim of their poetry.
Now I sit alone in the dull bluish glare
Of the screen of my PC and into it I stare,
Typing this ballad like a maniacal fiend,
Hoping this warning shall not be demeaned:
Newbies, if you write about sweat, blood and tears,
Teen angst and the nature of your deepest fears,
Beware of my wrath and remember just this:
Your poetry is no better than piss.
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