It bugs me
It bugs me when teenagers write poetry. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
All this talk of life and love. It sickens me.
You’ve gone through less than you think; your pains are nothing. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
It bugs me that we encourage this behavior. Words don’t just make poetry.
Just because something sounds profound doesn’t give it substance.
Substance makes words real. Words don’t just make poetry.
Granted, I don’t know what I’m talking about. How could I?
Need I even point out the obvious irony?
And I certainly have not gained sufficient credibility. How could I?
But give your own work a critical eye. Come back to it later.
Look at it without adding in your own emotion.
Experience makes poetry, not words. Come back to this later.
