She Describes Blood As Red

I think all of us poets have been here before...

I’ve seen her work

Praised by those that look to her glimpses

And not her phrases

She thinks she’s a poet

And she describes blood as red

 

She sat next to me on the couch

And asked what I thought of her work

A bright smile upon her vapid visage

I tell her

 

You describe blood as red

She nods and looks perplexed by my statement

As if the words were random

And gave no meaning in their structure

 

And?  She asks

I look at her and wonder

Despite her lack of talent

Is it right that I should crush her preconceptions

 

Finally I smile and let out a sigh

It’s great, I tell her

Deciding she couldn’t understand the criticism even if I gave it

And I die a little inside

Reviews

[Heather]

I so understand this poem, when that person you are with just does not get it, cannot see beyond the simplicity of things. Poets, writers, we should see things in multiple hues, endless shades, and full spectrum. Words are our playground. So sad that she could only describe it as red when the color of blood is so much more than red.

[Kenneth Compton]

Thanks for the commiseration! It's at times like that I lose all hope for humanity, it's nice to have it given back by people like you!