Author Information
Secondhand Smoke
What if I told you
He's never read a poem?
Not thoroughly anyway
Or for any enjoyment,
But just out of boredom.
Would it make him
Less authentic,
Or should I say
Less authorized
To pen things?
I swear,
He's got no fire
To his burn
His words are secondhand smoke
Mere misty utterances
We choke and gag upon.
Oh, the irony
Of the writer
Who shouldn't be writing,
Writing what should be hiding
Somewhere away in his brain
As a mangled thought
Not fit for rhyming,
Makes us all sick;
As our stomach lining corrodes
While he digs for lyrical gold
With no mining picks.
I know.
I hate me too.
