Burn Poet, Burn

I am a poet without honor when will I ever learn? I saw people yesterday that were more than worth a line. There were matters of importance, grist for a real poet's mill. There were deep emotions waiting for a poet's caring note. I passed through images and scenes, there should have been a poem. I knifed through that day like warm butter with not a word, retold. Always putting off the writing, I never capture the heat. Even these lines were better when they were a first conceit. I am a poet without honor and really deserve to burn.