Annoyed

This is who I really hate:
Those compelled to write
poems at this time of year,
or at some national plight.

They are published in the paper,
and are full of dodgy rhymes,
they have boring words, and mundane thoughts,
and most contain one or two much longer than the average lines.

A poem should open like a flower,
and words, wave softly in the wind,
with thorns to pierce the hardest hearts,
and thoughts to tame the wildest mind.

A poem’s life is infinite
Etched on the soul with rage,
and published in a dusty book
not a chip stained letters page.