Just Like me…

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What kinda poet are you?

Do you write about the world, or about fairy tales?

Do you speak for the lovers or a child’s heartbreak?

Is all that you do pretty and colorful, 

with hints of hope and dripping with teenage emotions?

Such simple sentences;

such mediocre language,

didn’t you go to school?

Why cant you speak with the eloquence of a well cultured woman;

an aristocrat right out of the 16th century.

Why so brash and narrow-minded in your thinking?

Where are the complexities and verbose paragraphs?

Is this the kind of poet that you wish to be?

being inspired about silly little things;

about rain drops falling on window panes  

and flies buzzing at trees,

smothering your readers with pathetic imagery and sass…

but, on some days, I wish i was a poet like you.

One who hadn’t forgotten about the simple things. 

Who could find the beauty of a tick on a cow’s ass.

I wish I still had the imagination of a child,

that I could engulf myself in the outer body experiences 

of science fiction and celestial creatures.

Yet, i adapted to my predecessors,

and felt the need to change, 

my tone, and my style,

to develop into a “better” poet, 

a “better” writer. 

I became so abstract and dense 

that even i couldn’t understand,

and all for what?

Have I become one of the great poets of old?

who have spun fine silk tales of rhythm and rhyme.

Have i become better, 

or have i lost what made me love putting pen to paper. 

Is this the kinda poet you wish to be?

Or would you prefer to be just like me?

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2 thoughts on “Just Like me…

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