(Don't tell the cliches I'm just using their pain to my own advantage though!
My ninja-mad poetry skills were fleeting,
and it took forever to find out why.
But the real reason behind my poetry-block
is enough to make even The Joker cry.
I thought the clichés were attacking me,
but the sad, sad truth is what I've been forced see,
They've always been such hated things,
All they wanted was to feel that fame,
the fame that being fresh and fancy brings.
So my poets, though I love you all,
I just can't hesitate to say,
your fancy imagery isn't wanted here,
There's just no room for it in this poem of clichés.
There's excitement hanging in the air,
And the clichés are anxious as can be.
They stand like deer caught in the headlights,
of some intimidatingly large S.U.V.
No longer are they bound the chains,
They're driving through life in their own lanes.
And even when we're torn far apart,
Or they've perished by the harshness that is crit,
They'll still be alive and living in a place I call my heart.
So my poets, though I love you all,
I just can't hesitate to say,
your fancy imagery isn't wanted here,
there's just no room for it in this poem of clichés.
They were once intimidated by this monster called hate,
They stood still as stone, petrified by a common fear,
That another monster known as the “Picky Reviewer”,
Would make their over-usage much too clear.
Trapped inside a dangerous snare,
They cried out and hoped some one would hear.
And so now I'm stuck here writing this,
And please don't tell them what I'm about to say,
Fancy imagery and fresh phrases are something I desperately miss.
So my poets, though I love you all,
(And I'm really sad to tell it)
I just can't hesitate to say,
(but these clichés are stubborn little twits!)
your fancy imagery isn't wanted here,
There's just no room for it in this poem of clichés.
and it took forever to find out why.
But the real reason behind my poetry-block
is enough to make even The Joker cry.
I thought the clichés were attacking me,
but the sad, sad truth is what I've been forced see,
They've always been such hated things,
All they wanted was to feel that fame,
the fame that being fresh and fancy brings.
So my poets, though I love you all,
I just can't hesitate to say,
your fancy imagery isn't wanted here,
There's just no room for it in this poem of clichés.
There's excitement hanging in the air,
And the clichés are anxious as can be.
They stand like deer caught in the headlights,
of some intimidatingly large S.U.V.
No longer are they bound the chains,
They're driving through life in their own lanes.
And even when we're torn far apart,
Or they've perished by the harshness that is crit,
They'll still be alive and living in a place I call my heart.
So my poets, though I love you all,
I just can't hesitate to say,
your fancy imagery isn't wanted here,
there's just no room for it in this poem of clichés.
They were once intimidated by this monster called hate,
They stood still as stone, petrified by a common fear,
That another monster known as the “Picky Reviewer”,
Would make their over-usage much too clear.
Trapped inside a dangerous snare,
They cried out and hoped some one would hear.
And so now I'm stuck here writing this,
And please don't tell them what I'm about to say,
Fancy imagery and fresh phrases are something I desperately miss.
So my poets, though I love you all,
(And I'm really sad to tell it)
I just can't hesitate to say,
(but these clichés are stubborn little twits!)
your fancy imagery isn't wanted here,
There's just no room for it in this poem of clichés.
