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.
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