Self-acclaimed poetry pundits of the world —
Critics. Panels. Publications.
And softcore sellouts disguised as revered prophets.
You orgasm to imagined redemptions so violently,
it’s hard to tell what’s more fictional —
your intellect or your self-awareness.
Frail little bitches
with dildos for egos
and the vision of a blind bat.
Pimps of synthetic realities,
chasing closure
like dogs chasing car wheels.
While you’re busy judging
whose poetry poetrys like “great poetry” should —
why not read yours aloud to the world?
All of it.
No pseudonyms.
No context.
No curated captions.
Just your unhinged, bared bones.
And if that thought scares the shit out of you —
shove your syllables and standards
up your unwiped metaphors.
Because here’s the truth:
You don’t read to feel.
You read to belong.
Your reviews are masturbatory rituals
in velvet-lined echo chambers,
where the only thing louder than your praise
is your terror of being unread.
You don’t love poetry.
You love the sound of your own taste.
So before you seek redemption in verses,
redeem your poetic sense —
or better still,
write one poem
that doesn’t sound like a eulogy
delivered at the funeral
of your own relevance —
attended by no one,
except your insecurities,
reciting stanzas
they never understood —
and never will.
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