Pop Quiz

What is more useless than a poet, and why?
Encloistered in cramped artist’s garret, threadbare garments
more holes than whole,
paint spattered, unruly and unkempt,
barely aware of need for sustenance or even air,
entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
Unburdened words on paper or device, I am merely effete,
despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, express
profound emotion,
they are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose intimate thought is inelegance.
To explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
I am the real deal — the poet-philosopher, impossible dreamer,
journey’s fool.
Surely I ought be surrounded by acolytes, prostrate at my feet,
honored to breathe the sacred incense of my majesty.
Yet here I sit, plagued with bills unpaid, in squalor;
cheap rented room
unadorned by idolatry.

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