Parasitic poet, what are your deeds?
You suck life from words with gripping-sharp teeth.
Pandering to self while pushing off pleas,
you know poets are words writhing like weeds.

Philosophic poet, floundering in fees,
galed up by letters of dying life’s seas.
Poet extreme bathing deep in esteem,
pluck off your own ticks and live your life’s dream.

Pessimistic poet, why must you bleed?
You mess up own mind when you start to preach.
Pondering on self while misplacing your ‘me’s,
you see poets are words, voicing their needs.

Parasite poet, you look just like me.
Tell, please – why won’t my words free me to be?

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 11/22/04