Begging Myself For Real Poetry
Is it just me or has “poetry”,
Become a word for “vomit”,
They’re words without phonetic symmetry,
As if “poem” was synonymical for “omelet”.
Can a poem truly be anything and all,
A writer deems or seems in any way?
Are words without rhyme or flow to y’all,
A “poem” no matter what they say?
I long for Shelley and Whitman and Wilde,
Whose content coalesced with form and lyric,
Rather than the written words of a child,
Whose empiric entries are at best satiric.
Oh poets remind us of what our voice can do,
When laced with lust for literature and nomenclature,
Whose languid lore can lavish in tone and hue,
Within the art that best defines the beauty of human nature.
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