The Gatekeeper’s Pen
Brian Strand, the poetry man..
Sits high above with judging hand.
A keeper of the crafted line..
Deciding whose words get to shine.
I send my verses, raw and true..
Each syllable a piece of you.
Of heart, of hurt, of things I’ve known..
Yet back they come.. declined, disowned.
No golden tick, no praised reply..
Just silence dressed as reasons why.
No “almost there,” no guiding light..
Just shadows cast on things I write.
So why, dear judge, with seasoned eye..
Do all my efforts pass you by?
Is it the rhythm, rough and wild?
Or truth too loud, too uncompiled?
Perhaps my lines don’t fit the mould..
Too sharp, too real, too uncontrolled.
Not polished clean for safe display..
But scars that never fade away.
Or maybe it’s a quieter thing..
That art’s not crowned by any king.
That taste is fickle, hearts don’t match..
And not all flames are yours to catch.
So Brian Strand, the poetry man..
You hold the gate.. but here I stand.
For worth’s not stamped by one decree..
A poem still breathes.. if it’s in me.
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