PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

To the person grading this poem
To the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a pen
Waiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:
Stop it.
Don’t Patronize me.
I did not slave over this with hammer and anvil
Shaping it into a masterpiece.
I didn’t paint it onto the ceiling of some church,
Going blind from the pain and the stress.
This isn't even worth anything.

And while I’m writing this in my fifth-period economy class,
You can bet I’m not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.
No, I’m concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.
This isn’t a masterpiece.
Who are we kidding?
You’re not going to hurt it, and you most certainly aren’t going to hurt me.
Stop it.
Don’t patronize me.

I want you to destroy my work.
I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.
Tear it apart from margin to margin;
Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.
Stab through its sputtering heart with the sharp edge of your pen.
Piss on it, for all I care.
Mark it as your own.

I want you to handle this poem with all the delicacy and surgical precision
of a butcher in a slaughterhouse
of a serial rapist
of Caligula ripping a baby from his sister’s womb.

Jab a knife through the soft flesh of its stomach
And gut it like a fish.
Watch it gargle to breathe as letters pour out of its wounds.

You want persona?
I am the speaker.
This is my humpbacked, pulsating blob of a poem.
And you are Jack the Ripper.
You are Charles Manson.
gnitirW. yM. lliK.

This has no meter.
No beat.
No style.
No lines that long and linger for the comfort of a smile.
No form to be worth your while.
it dont evn rime.

Its imagery lacks depth and imagination.
No, it does not show potential.
It is not “clever” or “good” or “interesting.”

Quit feeding it lies.

And if you dare write “nice”
Or “good image” one more time in the margins,
I swear I am going to snap.

This isn’t going on anyone’s fridge.
It does not deserve a “super” or an “A+.”
It deserves to die.

And as I’m finishing this up in class,
Do not be concerned with how I feel.
I’m thinking to myself, “let’s flush this fucker down.”

So as you’re sitting there, kindly, patiently reading
This beer-shit guttural splattering I call a poem,
Please just be honest.
Who are we kidding?
Stop it.
Don’t patronize me.