For thinking you could weave yourself
into a poem that actually had any merit of meaning.
There is no beauty in colour, its just light hitting your eye.
There is no meaning in metaphor, just mere association,
like a dumb bird recognizes its food.
There is no reason to write,
surely someone somewhere has written it better than you,
saw it more clearly than you.
There is no word you can use to describe your pitiful emotions,
surely someone somewhere has felt them more strongly than you,
has suffered far more than you can scratch on a piece of paper.
There is no expansion of understanding,
no matter how much the cosmos explode,
you're still just a dumb animal thinking you're something you're not
just because you've travelled fast and talked fast over meager distances
and saw men walk on the surface of the moon,
doesn't mean you can be a poet.
But then again, who can be, if no one thinks anything is beautiful?