I am of the elite
poetic mind.
Well hidden behind
a veil
constructed of paper and ink.
standing inside hollow pride
all alone,
I cast stone after stone,
for fear that someone
may catch glimpse of my face
or smell my stink.

In artistic arogance
this world I choose to slander
as i desperately seek
it's aproval and aplause.
Don't read too carefully though,
because you just might see
that disdainful contempt
is but an attempt
to direct you away
from my countless flaws.

"What a wonderful write."
and
"How insightful."
is all I care to hear of you.
So read and begone.
I've no stomach for the truth.
Each dagger thrust
into society's already dead heart
is not art,
just a pale immitation,
a sad emination
of a tragic youth.

Anger is what lies
beneath my wall of lies
concocted in rhyme.
It's a spiritual crime
perpetrated by a poisoned brain.
The fault is not mine,
always others,
for I am justified
when it is they and not me
who are insane.

Potentialy cleansing tears
like salt acid within
tightly clenched ducts.
Stubbornly unshed
until the finaly pour out
staining the purity of page.
Perfumed and painted,
these words tainted
are mere adolescent expressions
of a pointless rage.

View this work of my
"SOUL?"
and then please
stroke my
EGO
by telling me what
a creative mind i have,
so that I may sourly scoff
at all of the praise
and pretend that
I just
don't give a damn.

When in reality
any fool can see
that
I NEED YOU!

I am of the elite
poetic mind.

a poem by Donald Wilfong