Rich people's poetry.

Now here's what I noticed. There is one young lady that I know of who blogs, writes, dances, sings, draws, explores and seems to be trying her very best to show off how spectacularly wonderful she is.

Now she is not alone in her amazing powers of the arts (heed sarcasm)--there are HEAPS of them out here. ('Here' being on the web and real life and 'them' being rich little kiddies who have too much time and money for their own good.)

Now here's my:
Slab of delicious red meat?
No.
Here's my beef.

For centuries, the arts have been primarily excelled at by those who have two things: Wealth and Time.

Now in my opinion, if you have wealth, you most likely have time. Far be it from me to judge (although it's actually not very far at all, in fact, I lie. I judge.) but would that we all have so much time and money --surely we'd all be spectacular at everything right?

If everyone's papa had the funds to let them travel the world writing and dancing then really, everyone could be very accomplished in both those things.

Call me bitter and jealous --for I am, and rightly so. Resentful even. I can't help but feel this injustice smack bam into my face. Nothing irritates me more than the wealthy priding themselves on their endless pursuits in perfecting their 'arts' when really, who cares? What are they doing but masturbating their (deluded) sense of social value?

So you dance well?
Great!
You can string words together?
WONDERFUL!

What?!
You've written poetry about nothing and something all at the same time and it's so wonderful that it leaves people scratching their heads because they don't really understand it, but dont want anyone to know it, so they just exclaim, "MARVELLOUS! Aren't you just marvellous?!" just so no one knows that they don't get it.

(You can't even blame them because really, most of those self-proclaimed poets aren't writing poetry at all. They're just writing in their own crazy code. No one save a highly experienced psychologist with extensive practice in psychoanalysis would be able to decode that crap.)

To be honest, if poetry was just a couple of sentences, paragraphed and obscure in meaning, then we can all be poets. See below:

A cloud, evanescence in obtuse,
bequeath a slow be-symphony

Haveth not all that can be,
A soliliquy of one's self and

in Essence,
A song of mut meanalysis.
What is a porterhouse?

Now, at least I know that the above is worse than crap. Worse actually. It's crap spewed from a diseased cow, consumed by a bogan donkey, digested in that donkey's mouldy intestine, excreted from the donkey's pimpled arse only to be consumed once again by an illiterate monkey, who is then drowned in sewerage and later consumed by a human who will then go completely insane, lose the function of his brain and then crap all over the walls. He then takes a quill formed from a feather plucked from a flea infested pigeon and dips it in the said crap to produce the above piece of ULTIMATE CRAPNESS.

Yeah, and it's still better than the shit those rich infidels spout.


Message of the day: You're not a poet, you're not a Beethoven incarnate, you can't dance like Michael Jackson (not a reference to Wongfu video on yt --that was actually pretty cool), you aren't more talented than other people --you're just lucky.

Be a decent human being and get off your high horse to help an old lady across the road once in a while. And if you can, try to help the smelly ones who are probably dying and lost, rather than the perfectly well dressed, actually only 50 yrs old, ladies who are happily crossing the roads themselves.