i see you there, writing so furiously

i know a man, he likes to write, and that he does so well,
but for his life, he cannot speak and neither can he spell;
his grammar, too, is all disdain, and causes me much ire,
and if i could, to all his notes i would them set on fire.

though, besides that, i have to say, his words, they're played quite well,
and sometimes when he does make sense, i think his writing's swell!
but most the time, i think it's drab, and sullen, childish, too,
and when he writes it's neither meant for me, for him, nor you.

it jumps around, and prances free, and roams and comes back home,
but of all these it mostly dies like themes of all his poems;
i sometimes think he's insightful! oh, lord, he deserves praise,
but truth be told, he's just a fool who circumvents a maze,
that's made of thoughts - his own mostly - that are so skewed, untrue;
when the day comes, he realise his own words are his rue,
but until then, he lives on and as if he's made of glass,
pretensive as a unicorn that fakes his upper class.

good luck to you! i bid you fair, the warmest, fond farewell,
i'm off to read something more real like sarte or orwell;
oh, heaven's sake, i'm becoming the elitist that's you,
it's like i'm watching in replay a prophecy come true.

i wish sometime that i could empathise with all you feel,
but i can't see in my blindness that this mirror is real.