Roots
I am younger in words than Shelly or Wordsworth
not as old as Shakespear's sonnets,
should I care?
I never did read a sonnet, that I could bare
to eat whole.
Those carefully quilted works of yore speak less and less -
so forced, so fed to the very last tooth.
Poetic perfection has a shelf life.
A fresh salad gobbles up itself.
Don't be annoyed, I did not invent the wooden ruler,
or the yardstick that inches along the page.
I go just words; I got words like roots
for tumbleweeds, and dandelions.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
