so what?

i don't feel like i need to explain my art to you.

period.

and i don't care if you don't like it -

so what, it isn't for you..?

interpret that how you will.

oh wait, i forgot-

you don't know how to think for yourself,

and your fragile masculinity is threatened by the ambiguous.

so, i will be as specific as i can.

while you tell me nobody cares what i have to say

as you hide behind a vague sense of vogue,

behind contrived superiority and a smartphone screen,

continue to critique my work,

insult me.

you claim to be a writer but show me none of YOURS,

won't own up to who you even are,

but you think you know me, still.

i can't even be angry.

i am only moved to pity -

for you and the misguided dignity you cling to so desperately,

as if it is the only thing you have to flex -

because, in the end, it's just one more read on my stats.

and i love that for you.

so, thanks a bunch, and come again.