My poetry that is.


There are so few good poets out there.

She would say to me some days.

I never showed her my own poems.

She drowned me in hers.

She was a good poet.

Her insight on life filled the papers.

My emotions bled through to mine.

My poetry that is.

But still, she was talented.

People don't write like they used to.

She'd start.

Poems are too flamboyant now.

People don't write what they know.

The write how they feel.

Now don't get me wrong.

That's a part of poetry.

But they're still stupid.

That's how she'd end it.

I couldn't share my feelings.

I was too emotional.

I wasn't smart enough to argue.

And so at home, I'd write.

Let my pen erase my pain.

I'd throw them away then.

My poetry that is.

The trash cradled each word.

Till they were absored.

Into our morbid dumps.

Later buried or burned.

I thought that a fitting end.

For my poetry that is.

To just disappear.

And so I'd listen to her go on.

About politics and economics.

Religion and television.

She was so smart.

Not like me.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A short piece.  It might be symbolic, might not, depends on you I guess.  ^_^;  I was just bored?

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