by Adrian S. Potter
If Paris Hilton wrote poetry
It would not be hot.
Haikus about Gucci shoes,
Rhymed verse about a trendy purse,
Odes to toy doggies, and other gibberish
Would flood literary journals
And be featured on artsy websites.
No introspective thoughts
From a whore to pop culture
Coming to terms with the fact that
She's another average girl
With a flat ass, extra makeup, and a trust fund
Who lets her hair down
To hide the reality
That her looks are just acceptable
And not breathtaking.
Nope, we'd be left to decipher sweeping soliloquies
Saturated with adult ADD
About a ditzy mirage who bounces
between personal Camelots.
But then again, I might just be jealous
That she would garner critical acclaim
And receive a lucrative book deal
Before me.
