Poets

A poet’s job is easy,

just sit and put word

To all of life’s happenings,

The quirky and absurd. 

We point out the faults

Of society, of man,

Yet do nothing about it,

But complain while we can. 

Is it because we feel smarter,

Better— more moral?

Or because we like relaxing,

To sit on our laurels.

It’s tough to speculate,

I can’t say why others create.

For me, I just like writing,

To sit and pontificate. 

The challenge and joy

Of finding words that fit.

And the sweet satisfaction

When those lines happen to rhyme. 

Shit.

Yes, I know I screwed up,

now get off my back.

It’s not easy to rhyme,

So kiss my butt crack.

If poets are pathetic,

What does that make you?

Bitch.