He makes me sick.
His pretty little
simply put, simply said
one liners, one stanzas
Woo them all.
He's gained recognition
featured speaker spots
even respect and admiration
His chapbooks draw them all.
His style is not my style
so there's no "converting" to be done
And while I too would like to woo
such an expansive audience
I cannot do so at the expense of my pen.
And for that matter, I am not like her either
I do not have hate, angst, anger, and disgust
My daddy didn't abandon me nor abuse me
My mommy didn't ignore me
and while I have tragedies of my own
I have yet to make them into poetry slam material.
But that's what they want, isn't it?
It has to be
simply said or simply sensational
Understated or over-the top
And those of us with too much to say
in too eloquent a way
get lost in between the lines, the rhymes
and the judges evaluation forms.
I too shall sell it
simply say it in my own unique way
I shall scream it, ululate, lament
over the top
You want to see my wounds, my scars?
I've got just as many
just as deep
I keep them guarded, close
They are my secret weapons
and so while I prefer pretty prose and playing pretend
fantasy tales that beg to be told
I will take out my ink and daggers
and make fans of you all.
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