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To Self-Proclaimed Poets like Me MAG
The diction arranged in poetry, the syntax of this ode.
Passive voice’s entirety, being jointly juxtaposed.
The pretentious pomposity, of alliteration in prose,
Venerates our verbosity, and vivifies our woes.
Yet we are but a reflection, of the bigger world at bay.
Where the problem-solving solution, is to write some symbolic play.
Filled with the delusion, of prolix messiahs we’ve essayed,
We seek our absolution, in witless wordplay.
The vanity of poetry, full of rich literary glaze,
Layered with similes, for those we try to amaze.
We’re lost in this sea, of meandering masquerades,
Yet we emerge carefree, and paddle against the wave.
We garnish our verses, with synonymous jargon
and write about “the search”, and pretend that we belong.
Amidst rhyme schemes I’ve coerced, we find purpose in these songs.
Poetry is our curse, and it will stay with us lifelong.