I, The Poet

Just why do people poems write? Have not they things worthwhile?!

Grow paper does in their backyards? Or inks have filled the Nile?!

Just tell me straight what's on your mind; why twist the words?! I'm tired!

Do babies blabber better much, some poet not required!

O brutal folks, ingenious blokes, on us have mercy, please!

A talk with hens than read your scrap puts us at less unease!

Obsessed by you, then mobs of jerks in generations rise;

Who calls themselves 'The Lords of Words'. - The language's demise!

"Just what then doing now are YOU?", will then you question me.

I'll answer that by saying I am making history!

I'm proud, disdaiṇful, haughty, vain. Is imperfection spurned!

If yet you reading are this line, have your respect I earned!

My ego is the reason why am I alive and sound;

Yes me, but me, and me alone, the sensible around!

There's none like me, will never be, nor ever was before;

Am I apocalypse, am I tsunami on the shore!

Am legend I, immortal, elements with me made trysts!

I weave my world, my world is me; am I that all exists!

I etch my will, my destiny, my journey, and my course.

The universe obeys my law; have conquered I the FORCE!