I don't like poetry

Starry night over the Rhone, by Vincent van Gogh

(This was—poorly—adapted from a poem I wrote in Portuguese):

There are those who say life is beautiful
Their number is mighty plentiful
Nothing on this Earth, they'll say
Deserves to be admired as our birthday

Only the truth astonishes us
Life has got nothing to do with coziness
They say I should be life's sycophant
But I can't, I can't

Behind the walls of the universe
There isn't something luminous
What there is is some vexation
That plays with our imagination

The truth is that life tricks us
It gives us scraps and we think it's just
It wants me to praise it in chant
But I can't, I can't

I wish I could admire
Those that life throws in barbed wire
Then kick in the gut and face
And burn their families at the stake

But after this, manage to stand
Dust themselves off and wave a hand
Singing praises though life's scant
But I can't, I can't.

by Fernando Olszewski

(That was—poorly—adapted from a poem I wrote in Portuguese. Here's the literal translation):

Some say life is beautiful
There are a lot of them
For them there is nothing on Earth
That deserves such admiration

Only the truth frightens
Life is not bland
They say I should embrace her
But I can't, I can't

Behind the walls of the universe
There's no rainbows and cotton candy
What you have is something perverse
That plays with our imagination

Life, it deceives us
It gives us crumbs and we think it's cool
She wants me to be an idiot
But I can't, I can't

I wish I could admire
The person that life throws to the ground
Kick the belly and face
Burn the son, parents and brother

And then get up
Shake the dust and sing
“It's beautiful, it's beautiful and it's beautiful”
But I can't, I can't.

(Link to the original poem in Portuguese: Eu não gosto de poesia)