There are many brands of poets in this world,
Few of which ever produce anything worth reading.
But, before I raise a general outcry, let me explain.
There are the quivering, cowering types
Who are terrified of their own writing and
Secret it away in some darksome corner
To be found decades later by poor, unsuspecting relatives.
Then we have the normal, everyday type
Who writes passably well and is relatively sane
(Or as sane as a poet can be)
He shares a few succulent selections
With his friends once every year,
March 4th, 2:30PM to be exact. Rain or shine.
However, this world never was perfect and
Sad to say there is also the Conceited Poet.
Brassy and bold, he pours his creations upon the
Poor unprotected public with little regard
For the continuance of their mental health.
With a forceful "Read this!" he waves It under their noses.
And so they do; their toes curl and the hair
On their heads stands at attention.
Tiny rivulets of sweat trace delicate patterns down
Troubled brow, and they hand the offending article back,
Held gingerly between two fingers.
With a perfectly awful grin he retrieves his disgusting spawn.
And then the shaken reader,
With quavering steps makes his way home.
And with eyes rolling and hair wild he
Regales his friends with a recount of
The Perfectly Awful Poem.
