Secondhand Smoke

What if I told you

He's never read a poem?

Not thoroughly anyway

Or for any enjoyment,

But just out of boredom.

Would it make him

Less authentic,

Or should I say

Less authorized

To pen things?

I swear,

He's got no fire

To his burn

His words are secondhand smoke

Mere misty utterances

We choke and gag upon.

Oh, the irony

Of the writer

Who shouldn't be writing,

Writing what should be hiding

Somewhere away in his brain

As a mangled thought

Not fit for rhyming,

Makes us all sick;

As our stomach lining corrodes

While he digs for lyrical gold

With no mining picks.

I know.

I hate me too.

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