An ode to a bunch of barron poems
I create my own poems
Because I can't relate to any.
The heart break I seek,
seems not to exist in any.
So what's the point of seeking,
And why bother searching for a relief?
Afterall you could choose,
To carry a pen across your template.
Why bother when you're able to
Etch the depth of your wounds,
And in them, stream the root of your tears.
let the poems speak to you, let it create a relief.
Let it embrace, and let itself choose,
whether to be crumbled or to be set on fire.
Whether to live or to be kept a secret.
Whether to exist only in books or to be recited,
Or even better be byhearted.
Let it choose its fate like every other,
Or be selfish Poet, like any other.
But would you let the non gifted run desperate,
In lost hopes of finding refuge in your lines.
Won't you help?
Or would you leave them a blank page,
Or write them a bland verse,
Just like the ones they left you with,
The ones that you called a bunch of barron poems.