There are many forms of poetry. Some poems are better to be read than to be viewed, and some better to be viewed than read. Sometimes there can be a bluring of the boundaries between poetry and art, but concrete…
I cannot believe you have the proxy to insult me,
When I of all people am the best of the wannabes
Who strive to be the best they can
In a style of poetry written by an infant’s hand.
My cruel tongue, as you view it, is the purest form
Of interpretation and judgement of what is the societal norm.
The artificial style, that’s all the fashion,
Has neither taste, nor honesty, nor passion.
And so I advise you to be wise
And hear the genius expertise I offer in my advise.
“Hope comforts us awhile, ‘tis true,
Lulling our cares with careless laughter,
And yet such joy is full of rue,
My Phyllis, if nothing follows after.
Your fair face smiled on me awhile,
But was it kindness so to enchant me?
'Twould have been fairer not to smile.
If it’s to be my passions fate
Thus everlastingly to wait,
Then death will come to set me free:
For death is fairer than the fair;
Phyllis, to hope is to despair
When one must hope eternally.”
Does this satisfy you, for it has ever aspect that you denied the ones before. I feel that it touches on all maters moral, and can withstand anything that you can dish out.