He walks up to me; all of a fluff,
Takes a bow and then brings this up,
Hey Riddhi, I’ve heard you write,
And mentions his blog and extends an invite,
So did you read my latest effort?
Forgive me but I must have overlooked it,
So there I sit, dimly aware,
Of impending torture, while at me he stares,
As I read, he watches my expressions,
I’m being euphemistic, I meant contortions,
For everyone’s a poet, everyone can write,
All u need is Google and a rhyming website.
He starts off well, he talks of dreams,
And then likens them to milk and cream,
He touches upon beauty, he touches upon grace,
And subsequently his elegance vanishes without trace,
He wrote this piece with a passionate fire,
But his words seem fitted together with barb wire,
Fitted? No, wedged, is the word I’ll choose,
Oh! The metaphors he has managed to use.
This part isn’t even the most atrocious,
He’s managed to include supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!
And I would appreciate if his little twists
Did not remind one of resident word lists,
Oh! How cruelly he sows the lines,
If I were you, I would jump off an incline,
A violent death seems more pleasant,
Than to confront your poem's dead end.
And in the end he tries to be risqué,
To grace us with another gaping mistake.
I hope you will learn, and none too soon,
That there is noise and then there is tune,
And when talking about your lady’s charm
Do try not to bring in a graveyard’s calm,
For as composed and collected as she might be
Your misguided efforts will set her free,
Of any faith she might have had,
In your abilities with the pen and pad.
You may be a poet, you may be a writer,
But in pure silence your prospects shall be brighter,
Try you hand at embroidery instead,
For you are a living justification, for things left unsaid.