going against the morass

sometimes, at sea's edge, you can see a mass of seaweed, covering all beneath...plopping back and forth with the current as if to say "you will never see it, even if you wanted to" considering the deeper regions so close to shore. as a child, it annoyed me, and now as an adult, the same is true when comparing it with what the tide has brought in to the same region in the poetic spaces of social media.

frankly, much of it looks the same, smells the same, and insinuates that all should be the same. i have rejected joining the massive stench, and would rather be a piece of driftwood cast upon the shore. if my poetry is raw but has a stark beauty, then i have surpassed the formulaic chaos that passes as contemporary poetry by those who profess to write it. 

what good is writing if it is pretentious? if it reads like a jumble from a psych ward patient? if it gives off the same kind of lingering whiff that machine-driven poetry gives? 

discordance has never resonated with an audience like rhythm, alliteration, and meaning have throughout the ages. no matter who or who does not read my poetic pieces, i refuse to produce a mass of debris that should be thrown out with the night's garbage.