Poetry...
Despicable, soft, suburban white-boy junk
Meaningless emotional rants
Of an insecure author
Spare the world of your complaints
We’ve got enough already

You, author, gnaw our ears with painful articulation
And drive us to aspirin overdose with rhymes
Your language, may seem to modify your intelligence
But your use of it proves painfully otherwise

You slave over your heresy
The cup of liquid inspiration getting cold
Your lack of other skills grosses society
With the fungus you are
Your wasted hours a stain, growing every second

Who are you? Shakespeare?
Oh how beautiful your flawed grammar is
“Thee” and “Ado” just as graceful
As an infected scrotum

Do society a great favor
Get up and make use of the space you take you overgrown child
Your wasted breath diminishes my supply of oxygen
Leave poetry to when people cared, like the Renaissance
Poetry.
Heh.