Pompous Poet

My pen is mightier than any sword or rod,  
It spits so much fire you’ll be like “Oh my gawd!”  
Because come hell or high water it’s a slaughter,  
My wand is more magical than Harry Potter's!  

My pen is cocked and loaded maybe encoded,  
From tip to cap to stick and shaft and barrel,  
Thus depending on the size of the ball’s point,  
You best believe the ink will feel a little feral.  
 
Don’t worry, the trick is in not seeing the prick,  
Like sick slick limerick licks that please and tickle,  
It will hit hard like bricks, it's thick like Webster’s dic-  
-tionary  
You’ll definitely find yourself in a stiff pickle.  
 
So whether you spit them out or swallow the words,  
There is nothing mightier or smarter than this,  
Implied rhymes and lines are like flipping the bird,  
Because that's how I describe how hard my pen is.

If this is passive, very well, I'll go on the offensive
No girls breaking hearts here, promise
I'm not putting nothing straight anywhere
But I implore you, parasite, hear
The lecture has begun, sit down and shut up

I buy my metaphors
At the well of the muse herself
And unlike yours
Mine do not rot on a dry, untouched shelf
For my heart beats out a song that moves her
My metaphors are her gift for my song, that's how I get them, Sir

What have you ever done but haunted others?
So pompously, I laugh, cause yours is not one word
Spoken of admiration or of love

All you do is being a messenger of our time
A herald of presumption, who worships at the shrine
Of making others insecure, portraying them as weak
You've chosen the wrong prey this time
As this poet's not timid or open for your message
Full of insecurity, your message speaks of a heart
Who's small, who's outlook on all life is bleak

Pentameter, hexameter, damn the meter!
It's the words that matter
You soulless technician
You architect of what you know will please

The real fraud here is you

Listen
This is not for gentlemen or gentlewomen
This is for the ones who dare to give a piece of them
To the world, to rouse, to move and to inspire

What do you "gentlemen", wait no, I'd rather call you snobs
even know of true passion and desire?

I am a poet, no one takes that from me
Not you and your sad, small, little words
I have nothing but pity for your shallowness
You've never known the source of all my rhymes
You've never known the source of all my song

For mine's a blade that's forged in deepest darkness
Mine is a sword that was hardened by the brightest sun
And every single one
Of those who ever loved to read what I have written
Forges this blade

The ones you move are where all beauty begins
And they are all that matters

They are where it starts
Their love for beauty forges

The sword of hearts

your so-called poetry is like a two hour long high mass
in Latin
on Christmas eve
when all we wanted was Santa
though in truth the magic was gone
and we were just pretending for our parents' sake
because, i swear to god, we were there when they bought the freakin' toys
so deep down they knew we knew and we knew they knew we knew
there was no Santa
but everybody was pretending
trying to thwart the tick of time
and your poetry is also something like that --
a pretentious stab at authenticity
producing the dust-dry little vessel from which, for your sake,
we pretend to quench our thirst.