The Problem With Bad Poetry

Poetry conceits
That one believes she understands the world
By throwing around words like love, eternity, desire, darkness, soul
But really she knows nothing at all
Except abstraction
And pompous generalization that passes for wisdom
Because it leaves room for every contradictory answer
In the vastness of those weak, empty words.
But what does she know about the ache of an arm raised in the air
As the student waits too long to be called on?
Or the grating of a teacher's voice
As he lectures his pupils to sleep?
Or the burn of a paper cut?
The suffocating claustrophobia of knowing that no matter what
You won't be able to go to bed before three
And you have nine o'clock class the next morning?
The pang of exclusion when your friends laugh in the next room
But you have a paper to write?
The exhaustion that envelops one who spends all day focused on other people?
And the warm joy which erupts within when you know a friend appreciates your help?
The tremulous fear of messing up?
The shaky relief of discovering you haven't?
For some poets
Do not partake in the world of the common man
Dismiss the little things that make up each day
Discount the ordinary.
For some poets
There is only love, eternity, desire, darkness, soul.