Thursday, July 3, 2014

Poetry flaws

I have been asked a thousand times
why do I write. I write to release negative
and positive emotions. It is like my silver
lining to everything no matter what
the outcome may be.

I use to crave the creativity of
the words that you and me could
understand and relate to. How exciting
to make something out of nothing.
How compelling it is to find your
own therapy just through the words
that you feel inside of your mind.

Of course I have written about
love and loss, depression and hope
and everything else in between
the lines of life and living. Maybe
once in a blue moon even something
more provocative depending on
my mood and where I may be.

How exciting it was to search and
join every poetry show that I could.
Recite my own words and listen to
the beauty of those who also joined.
But it got tiresome, no longer could
I enjoy my children sitting beside me
listening to what use to be pure pleasure
and beauty.

Where has all of the heartfelt scribes
gone and why has it turned into something
that our children can no longer learn from?
We hear of night pleasures that are best
left behind closed doors. How silly we have
become when this gift God gave us is
pushed aside just to see how many of
the opposite sex wish to join us in our
make believe beds.

Because of this I next to never search
for those shows that I use to crave. Because
of this I just stroll down my timeline reading
to my hearts desire. But then there it was,
stolen property to go with our words. This
has become something of the norm! We cry
our anger when someone slides in and takes
our words as their own but yet we take an
artist photo like they mean nothing at all.

I have heard it all, why then do they put
it out there for everyone to see. Have we
forgotten that we do the same, does that
mean it is up for grabs in thievery? Can
we drop the name of the starving artist
that created the beauty we wish to use?
Maybe show them respect as we ourselves
would wish?

I don't know, maybe it is time to take a
break. Enjoy the real world and not the
fake. And we wonder why ten poetry books
will never sell as many as one novel may.

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