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Poem

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

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