Candid
Every poem,
Is only worth a damn,
If it captures my genius.
So rare,
So demanding to do.
My genius knows no limits,
So many poets,
With so obvious limits,
Could not hope,
To capture the purity of brilliance,
That is me.
The oceans, skies, clouds, emotions
Sensations,
That I am not feeling,
Are not worth exploring.
Mr Neruda, Whitman and Oscar,
What were you thinking?
I didn’t feel, see, say,
Experience that!
Scribble it out,
Cut it with red lines,
Repent and ask me what’s real.
It….
I couldn’t tear down Rome,
Even,
if I had something to build in its place.
Misfit.
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