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.

Once you’ve let your poetic prowess become

a tiresome pursuit,

once you’ve become tired of what poetry has to offer,

only then I suggest you put down your pencil,

for you are no longer a poet,

but rather a slave of a colorless society.

You start to improve once

you stop comparing yourself to others:

when you stop thinking of

what you could have been and

what you could have done.

And there is something beautiful

in a person accepting themselves.

And there is something terrible

in a person who lives a life

that is not theirs to live.

You need to answer a question:

The opportunities you pursue,

who are you pursuing them for-

yourself, or for another person?

It does not matter if

your dreams do not come true,

but it does matter that

you have the capacity to do

as much as you have the capacity to dream.

Let yourself be free of all standards,

too many times you’ve hurt yourself for the gold.

But you always forget that gold is malleable, gold is soft,

and that you are tough, you are strong.

Praise is temporary, but my dear poet,

your words are eternal.

Cover Photo Source: The Writing Cooperative