Prose Poem

I bought a little book of prose poems, which were all offensive to my ears. Every gaudy little line, every tacky little phrase, every grandiloquent little flowery line. One I read didn't like Hosea, who condemned adulterers to death. I think to myself, "We all deserve to die, you hypocrite." They talk about environmentalism. Offensive, draught, drivel, burning in my ears are these parasitic ostriches, and simplistic metaphors. That such would even be published, that such would even be brought to this mind nurtured and succored on the ancient belles-lettres  of the past. I hate it. Yet, I would have it never burned, for everyone can have their say. For the only offense it has committed against me, is that it is published and I am not. Should my writing be among the principle letters read for generations, this angst would be sufficed, and I would be at peace. Yet, it is the simplicity of this book which causes people to misunderstand the great art form of Poetry. It is like a puzzle, which entails listening for an hour's time to a few hundred words. But, no one will give my poetry the time because simple poems have dominated the market. So I burn with jealousy; and if I should burn in this unrequited passion, I still should not throw the book into the blaze. For, though hot, and angry, and fuming, it will help me understand someone else. And with that is wisdom worth the twenty-four dollars I spent on it.