The Poets
Buson had his comb
and Pound, his blackened bough.
But I am no poet.
I do not rage. Rage
is not for me.
Inspiration does
not peer through my ribs.
I cannot talk of Michelangelo
Or tell of Grecian Urns. No,
Ozymandias has not looked upon
My works.
What I write will not
Stand up with the greats
Sadly, I am no
Neruda, Poe, or Yeats.
I just spend my time
Reading The Rime
And failing to create.
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