Your lines, they got no steam.
They reside in low places.
Waiting for credit they didn’t earn.
There’s no life in them.
They can’t compete.
Floating flaccid and flavorless.
Chewed out gum,
stuck to the bottom of a gnarly Chuck Taylor smelling of burnt tungsten and dried oregano.
Pretension worries but doesn’t sweat.
Poems need sweat.
It’s as if you lived and learned nothing.
A litany of envy, thick.
A paucity of hope that you could do well if given a chance.
But the thing is, though,
you were given many chances.
You chose to say you were something, rather than work at being it.