I despise haiku,
It is poor man's 'poetry',
Rhyme it's most deaf to.
Haiku's nature's kind,
Builds itself forgivingly,
Its wordsmiths most blind.
And of poems' rhythm:
Discarded into the sea...
Worth little to them.
Why must this be so?
I believe haiku's lazy,
Comforting, and slow.
Creativity...
Makes writing haiku weary,
Dull activity.
Soulless imagery,
Oft' writ without energy,
This is drudgery.
Yeah, I'm totally bored.
...
Like seriously: put some fucking work into rhythm, rhyme, and meaning... or do not call it a poem.
It is poor man's 'poetry',
Rhyme it's most deaf to.
Haiku's nature's kind,
Builds itself forgivingly,
Its wordsmiths most blind.
And of poems' rhythm:
Discarded into the sea...
Worth little to them.
Why must this be so?
I believe haiku's lazy,
Comforting, and slow.
Creativity...
Makes writing haiku weary,
Dull activity.
Soulless imagery,
Oft' writ without energy,
This is drudgery.
Yeah, I'm totally bored.
...
Like seriously: put some fucking work into rhythm, rhyme, and meaning... or do not call it a poem.
Please give me a home where cloud buffalo roam
Where the dear and the strangers can play
Where sometimes is heard a discouraging word
But the skies are not stormy all day
