There is no art in your complaints.
Frequently your diatribes
Center around
How the general population sucks.
You act as if the flatulence you pass
Is reminiscent of roses.
I begin to wonder
If there is anybody that you approve of wholeheartedly.

There is no art in your judgements.
You are so quick
To express an opinion
That condemns your brethren and sistren.
Do you not reek of bones
Stashed away in a room
With little space and less light?

There is no art in your poetry.
It contains few visuals,
Broken metaphors,
And plaigerized sentiment.
Are you serious
When you try to pass
Your laundry list of bitterness
Off as poetry?
Think again.

There is no art in your opinions.
Whether you choose to admit it or not,
You are a pawn of society
Who generalizes far too much
And fails to see people as individuals.

There is no art in your experiences.
What have you told me about yourself
Other than the way
You point out the obvious
And the way you manage to lack
Any form of originality whatsoever?

Basically,
Anybody who labeled you an artist
Was only paying you lip service.
You have proved to me
That you don't brood,
Only spread negative energy
Wherever you walk, drive, or mass commute.
You spew venom,
And maybe if you had half of the maturity that you lack,
Maybe there is a chance that you could actually
Break spirits with your spastic tongue,
But I highly doubt it.

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