I Love Me Some Poetry

I love it 

when people 

struggling to string sentences together

and make sense, 

let alone make feel, 

think of themselves

as poets.

I love how they think poetry is morse code.

I love it

how poetry

has descended

from stinking sweat and gushing blood

to sophisticated clothing and soft accents

and the ones who dragged it down

now call it ascension.

I love how they think poetry is the struggle of the privileged.

I love it

how men

have traversed 

from being rebels

to being romantic rejects, 

from fighting kingdoms and regimes

to battling unattended boners, 

and called it poetry

and patted each other's backs

in the name of poetry. 

I love how men have reduced poetry to porn.

I love it 

how women

while being on the right side

of caste, of creed, of culture

and most importantly

oblivious of tax brackets

have gone from upliftment of the backward

to liberation of the uplifted and the entitled

and called it poetry

because what are you going to do about it? 

Questioning poetry is anti-liberal

and questioning women, misogyny.

I love how women have mutated poetry to pretense.

What I love the most though, 

is how offended you feel by this, 

how there's this deep urge inside of you

building up and trying it's best to take control of your etiquetted mannerisms

so you can for the love of narcissism

take a wild, wild swing at me, 

how every inch of skin on you

wants to scream at me

till I submit 

to your paper propagandas

and recycled revolutions

What I love the most is, how this isn't even poetry, and it still makes more sense and feel, than the puke you peddle in the name of poetry.

I know what you're thinking. 

How can you generalise and summarise genders into boxes? 

Well, sirs and madams, the very same way, you have trivialised and randomized everything that's not agreed to your conveniences and your pedagogies, into a singular blackhole.

You thought your poetry was the ointment, 

and I think, it is about time, you used some.

I would love me some poetry some more, wouldn't you?

I would have encouraged you to hate me, 

but then that's too potent a feeling,

and considering, all you ever gather is lukewarm smirks and kinder claps, 

my gut says, it's too expensive, for your privilege and your poetry.