by Modest Alchemist

Created on: November 10, 2008

You come out of nowhere,
Hand me a stack of papers

"Here read this"

And I am thrown once again
Into a place I can't stand
A position to lie to your face
Pretend to read your mindless drivel.

Your stale characters,
one protagonist, and
Several characters who
Play the same mundane role

Each time, the stack gets bigger.
And I pretend to read.
I can't get past the first page.
The first paragraph

Your lack of plot
Your cliche circumstance
Well I guess you write
About the things you know

Go out and experience things
Learn what it is that people desire
Not lumping things into Love or Fear
Place an x on the time-line

Your cliche language
The winds of time.
"Oh so mystical"
Are you kidding me?

I flip through the pages
at a faster than realistic speed
skimming the pages
for my favorite vowels

You're so full of yourself
you and your precious book
your pointless book
saying nothing with thousands of words.

What's the point?
And why do they call you
the creative one?
The poetic one?

Are they giving you this praise
because you can waste so much time?
They're probably pretending like me
but they will feel bad if they criticize you

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