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?