Where Has the Poetry Gone?

My dear poet do you think that

you are simply not up to par?

You write poems by your bedside,

ones that you are too anxious to show.

But alas you wither away in tears

when not a single soul propends towards

the poems you compose.

You tell yourself lies

that your poetry feeds

your passionate hunger for literature,

but are you really that interested

in what you attempt to offer?

One sublime poem is all that you need to birth,

to achieve the sweet validation you yearn.

Where is that poem, that cash crop, that treasure trove?

You’re washed up,

My dear, you’ve become old.

Fame is only temporary,

there are many who deserve better.

Why do you even attempt to fight?

Why do you even try to be the best?

When you pick up your pencil and start to write,

What social norm are you trying to detest?

You’ve read Dante, you’ve read Yeats,

thinking that if you read them you will become them.

Well let me tell you my dear poet,

the only thing that you will ever write is your own story.

There will be people in your life who will tell you

to put down the pencil,

but take my advice on this,

never put down that damn pencil.