Curse of the Verse
A satirical poem about loathing poetry.
I had a lot of fun writing this.
I'd love to know your thoughts.
I Hate Poetry
I’ve hated poetry most my life—
Garble-de-goop, fluffy ’n verbose.
A jumble of words in a frilly disguise,
All smoke and mirrors, no real prize.
Do people love romantic prose,
Or is it a riddle no mortal knows?
Each flowery phrase—a cryptic code—
A carriage ride down confusion road.
Assigned poetic reading in school,
Each verse I read—kaboom, kapoof!
My mind adrift on a classic poem,
Head in my hands to stop the gloom.
Brain now hunts for a barbwire noose,
Trapped in the teacher’s sly abuse.
Metaphors sharp as a rusty nail,
Piercing my will ‘til my patience fails.
Thwack! Piercing blow to my desk.
"NO SLEEPING IN SCHOOL!"
Ooph, I groan, this is grotesque.
“Now wipe up your drool.”
Please, Lord, strike down this wretched place.
I can’t make sense of this dribble-drabble.
A parade of words in crooked procession—
A circus of gloom in poetic confession.
These worn-out rhymes have no rhythm,
A rage-inducing storm within ’em.
One stanza rhymes, then flows all free—
A hurricane with no eye to see.
Unblinking eyes, my mind's at recess,
Lectures drone on in pompous excess.
Flamboyant words in rapid succession—
These teachers are under demonic possession.
Unwritten meaning strewn about,
Not even hints are singled out.
Buried so deep it’s a literary crime,
Lost in the fog of nonsensical rhyme.
Poetry induces head-scratching blank stare,
Quantum mechanics—a simple affair.
Pull out the chair, strap on electrodes—
Flip the switch, death's better than this!
Poetry has robbed me of my hair
Do I dare share this despair?
A new toupee to wear with flair!
Phew! ’Twas all a waking nightmare.
Years rolled on, and so did I—
Funny how life can twist and pry.
Now I find joy in lines I despised,
Meaning appears where once disguised.
Find the rhythm, make it rhyme—
My vision is sharp, words more than they seem.
From chaos and cringe to a steady beat,
Now poetry’s curse feels strangely sweet.
Those evil, sadistic teachers of old—
Corpses smiling, they cast the mould—
Traps set—dark curses foretold,
A pestilent plague shall unfold.
My brain now bent on prose precise,
It caused me stress—now it feels so nice.
The tighter the line, the sharper the knife,
The better it cuts through the noise of life.
A wicked-fine curse for me to traverse—
Modus operandi—a complete reverse.
Writing in verse helps me converse,
A tad bit terse—shall I rehearse?
Immersed at last in poetic prose,
A curse I embrace though heaven knows.
With rhythm to bind it and wit to steer,
The irony’s rich… a curse I revere.
Mind awakened—drawn from darkness,
Perhaps this absurdity’s now my shtick.
Cursed with the verse, the damned were right,
Now strap me back in—let sparks fly tonight.
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