What I Write Is Not Poetry

They explained to me patiently, slowly,
(Because I am uneducated)
Why what I write isn't poetry,
Nor verse,
And not particularly meaningful.
It's not that I don't have anything to say,
They tell me,
I just don't know how to say it.
Where is my simile?
Where is my metaphor?
Where are my rhyme and meter?
They're there, I said.
I see them.
(But I'm uneducated)
And They remained unconvinced.
They then showed me my fatal flaw,
My Achille's heel,
(See I'm learning)
I had broken the law,
The law that states show, don't tell.
I nearly cried, they were so right.
I was sorry,
But ingorance of the law,
And so on, and so forth.
Still, they took mercy on me,
(Remember my lack of education)
They only asked that I stop writing poetry,
Until I know all there is to know,
So that I might follow the law.
I agreed eagerly, in my crafty peasant way,
(eh, eh?)
I now go on as before,
Because, as they say,
What I write is not poetry.

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