On the Masses

On The Masses How do many poems start? It is in all I think the desire for expression The pen or the keys write the painful subject Or wring the lips in unforced joys From there the simple marks The words spoken fresh and free No longer unite these fledgling Dreams, masterpieces, written weeping and tortured screaming Like Eden and the apples bite The touch of paper upon the words Brings them to the jungles threshold To keep your emotions a simple pleasure Is easy and does not test your measure Inside the deep the critics lair Is where the forgotten hopeless and remembered greats dared Where poems die, screams of passion judged A flowers description as delicate as the thing This is where they go be seen, atop the heaps are the standard few I rarely dig deep, though that is where my own are buried I'll read the ones seen as great I'll dream of the ones I'm yet to write For in a moment they are the same