Poetry. Ugh.

“You write poetry?” She asked
Followed by an “Ugh” and scoff
Disdain was clear upon her face
With an eye roll she was turned off

“Why waste your time on that?
It’s pretentious and unattractive.
No one reads poems anymore”
She was irksome and reactive

There was no reason in her mind
As to why someone would write
To waste time and words and energy
On a “hobby” that’s such a blight

“Girls don’t find that sexy” She stated
As if that could be the only reason
It couldn’t be that writing is for oneself
And denying a writer is treason

No, poems can’t be meaningful
Or convey love, or purpose or strife
No writer finds solace or serenity
In interpreting what we call life

Maybe I’m the crazy one
Since her and I clearly disagree
Everything needs logical purpose
And I think writers write to be