This poem is for a few poets I know who have quit and for some who question the point of it all.
As I write my last my poem
For once I have the courage to stand tall
Flashback my career as memory recalls
I began writing for fun
A melody of rhyme highlighted me gifted
When aroused by a concept my words became spirited
This label of talent, unfortunately does not feature
Aimed to get respect from my peers, words of encouragement flattered
Though to make a sale the public really mattered
I am one of the same like a black tie event
This mental pressure to create causes solitude pain
A few loyal followers and still no fame
In this creative pool
I write a poem at 10.52
Another writes better in a time zone of 8.52
Contacting publishers they say poetry will not increase their figure
This man in a suit cannot even write poem
In my mind I believe I have to disown him
I sense I am writing into the wind
Thankful comments no longer stir me
A stereotypical poet my facial features are surly
Social media profile closes down as I hate looking in the mirror
Tweeps message out of care
When offline then reality stares
No longer dictated by stanzas
I join the dead poets on the wall
Rest in peace as my pen falls