Am I a praise poet or a blame poet?
Today I am a blame poet.
O Death, face it, existence
doesn’t like you.
You can’t sing. You can’t paint.
You can’t play drums. You can’t skateboard.
You won’t even ride a bicycle.
You are harbinger of nothing.
All you like to do is hinder and disturb.
Hinder and disturb.
I think you think it’s cool.
It’s not. (And you smell funny.)
It’s getting annoying.
You’re, like, so cheerless.
I don’t care what you think,
I’m trying out for the school play.
Jason Camlot, "Dear Death,". Copyright © Jason Camlot 2013. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Source: What the World Said (Mansfield Press, 2013)