Dead Poet on the Wall

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

RIP

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