Poems bore me like a grey sky on a gloomy Monday morning. There is lack (or absence) of excitement in poems. Lack or absence of everything actually – characters, adventures, climax, plot, conflict. Everything.
Poems are as hard to write as they are to understand. I hate how those perfectly arranged words take you and leave you wanting for more. You write them for days, read them in minutes and get you thinking, even disturbed, for weeks.
I don’t like poems, or poets for that matter. Poets are insane. The metre, the phrasing, the rhythm, the verses put together are just too much of a hard work. And nobody even pays attention! Still, they keep doing the same thing.
With his finished product of well-selected words, the poet intellectually lures you to his world like playing a trick without you even noticing it. And I don’t like that cleverness.
I’d rather enjoy a comic book with all the illustration to not mislead its reader. On a perfect sunny day in the park, I’d rather pick up a plainspoken composition that does not require too much engaging. I’d rather not cultivate my imagination or my critical thinking. I’d rather not appreciate the beauty, power and mystery that is in every carefully thought of form of poetry.
So why read poems? If you’re going to ask me, I suggest you don’t.