Ode to My Own Unparalleled Poetic Greatness

I dip my pen in the ink of destiny
(which is very deep and also dark like my thoughts)
and proceed
to unleash.

The moon hangs in the sky
like a circular orb of lunar brightness,
shining beams of illumination
upon the earth’s terrestrial ground.

I, the Bard of This Generation,
compose stanzas so profound
that dictionaries tremble
and thesauruses faint from exhaustion.

My metaphors are like similes
that compare things
to other things
in ways that are comparable.

For instance:

My soul is a volcano
erupting with fiery lava heat passion
which burns like fire
and is hot.

Critics have said (jealously, no doubt)
that my poetry is “confusing”
and “grammatically adventurous.”
But they simply cannot comprehend
the vast enormity
of my depth.

I do not write poems.
I sculpt word statues
from the marble of vocabulary
using only the chisel of brilliance.

Each line break
is intentional.

Even
this
one.

Especially that one.

When I rhyme, it is subtle:
heart
apart
cartography.

You see? Slant rhyme.
Advanced.

I once wrote a haiku
with seventeen feelings.
It was so powerful
that a houseplant leaned toward it.

Future generations will study my enjambment
and whisper,
“How did he dare?”
while wearing turtlenecks.

And when I ascend
to the Great Writer’s Workshop in the Sky,
the clouds themselves will part and say,
“Finally.
The genius has arrived.”

Until then,
I continue blessing the page
with my unstoppable,
inevitable,
incredible,
ineffable,
irrefutable,
irreplaceable—

Art.