I laugh at the criticism.
I adore the rude criticism that I get
When people tell me to keep my comments to myself.
I know better than to
Catch wind of their words
As the float on scared breezes.
People feed it back to me,
Saying jesus can save me,
Hell, jesus couldn't even save himself,
How the hell could he save me, pray tell?
The criticism is funny,
People getting mad at me because
I boldly went where no person of critiquing wanted to go.
Or dared to go.
They are all full of lovey dovey words,
Niceties that make me wretch into
The toilet of life that
I've yet to flush.
“This is nice,
This is good,
This creates flow,
This is decent.”
I long for the people to tell it like it is.
“This is horrid,
This ain't no poem.
This sucks.
You call yourself a poet?”
Perhaps I am THAT damn good
That no one can muster up the strength
To say anything bad about my words, my queries.
Am I good to the point
That criticism is but a nicety away?
I'm not that good a poet, I know this much is true, but
At least I can acknowledge it.
I'm not hurt by the harshness others preserve for me.
I tell it like it is,
Shouldn't everyone else do the same?
February 25, 2004
Suge
*To those of you who have actually been truthful with my poetry (and not the ones who left one line feedbacks!) my thanx goes to you. Hopefully ya'll know who you are!
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