A try to be superior

A wave brings back a thousand stars,
A maunder incoming, I warn,
But you still read nevertheless,
I wish I could sift you off.

I wish my poetry was there,
Only for me and my soul,
But wait! What did I say!
Souls are just an excuse to exploitation
Of the vicious beliefs of malnourished
To bring forth an air of superiority
That they are actually something
Other than the fleeting hunger
Of their mind
That encumbers their very entity

I write this poem, I really don’t know why.
This nonsensical assimilation,
Is just a colourful excretion of my brain
To be the very pretentious,
So called by the world.
So that people exclaim doubtedly
That this is powerful and strong
This is avant garde!

But I cannot reach such accolades
My brain is something different
Not a “good” different, I assure you.
But a difference which is aromatic
In comparison to the litter that surrounds me.

People say I speak too highly of myself,
But in fact I think I am the lowest of them all
A mere rebel fox
In a commoner’s sheep skin
Trying to lure my prey into thinking,
That I am something flamboyant
And jubilant or extravagant

But most of my attempts pass off
Down the drain where I reside,
Into the tunnel of “could be glorious”.
And this poem another lot of
Senseless nonchalant talking,
But, would it be wrong to say,
This makes the most sense to me.