I’ve found myself,
time after time,
baring my soul for all to see.
And even now,
in simple rhyme,
set loose from bonds of slavery.
My heart’s fetters unleashed – I’m free.

Then you come
and crudely say:
“Who cares about your heartfelt work?
No one would
consent to pay
For something that’s one single perk
Lies in an accidental quirk.”

Your tone is harsh,
unlearned and brutal:
you do not think before you speak,
else you would re-
a-lise my cries
tell of more than just salty cheeks.
Can you see the blood that leaks?

And the great poet,
with plays and sonnets,
is dragged into the fighting fray.
His ruff is stiff,
and face is stiffer,
but that’s what happens to the dead, they say.
That’s what happens when Death gets its way.

This man does not
help your case –
in fact, he only weakens you.
If you’d done
your homework, then
you’d know that I loathe his work, too.
Shakespeare’s work would never do.

Yes,
I hate Shakespeare’s emo poems, too.