A Poem Directed for the Narrow Region Right Between the Eyes of Poets

I hope you are offended easily.
Take a look at your pathetic life.
Does it make you happy to write about
thunderstorms and cats and love and sex
and war and relationships?
Does it make you feel good when you write some
really overused imagery like
smoke or fog or sand or bone?
You are a pathetic waste of life with not even a shred
of an original thought in your head.
Yes, you.
Don't feel like you're special or different.
You're not.
You're just as pathetic as anyone else who's ever thought
it would be a good idea to pick up a writing utensil and a piece of
parchment and write some dumbass treatise on your own thoughts.
Here's a worthwhile exercise:
try to figure out how much time you've wasted in your life
writing your pathetic excuse for art and how much time
you've wasted reading it.
If you've ever thought you needed to read it in front of other people
you might as well stop figuring and shoot yourself
because that makes you unbearably stupid.
Poetry readings are ego fests for people with a lack of intellect.

I'd like to blast all of you stupid, moronic
imbeciles with an electric guitar
right up side the head
and then savor the sound of the feedback.
I'd record it and name it "The Ballad of Me Kicking Some Lameass Poet's Ass!"
and I'd listen to it every day.
Kicking a "real" poet's ass is the only thing that might bring a smile to my pathetic, ugly face.