Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
......
there he was
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase
both stuffed with
papers
“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
......
it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause
He looked around
and saw
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
......
like a baby left for
hours
and hours in a hot car
he
woke up
with a sweaty forehead
and a buzz
in his temples
no room to stretch
......
the last time he went out of
his mind he liked it
so much there
that he never came back
not even after the
alcohol left
his blood
he keeps writing to this day
......
it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause
He looked around
and saw
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
......
there he was
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase
both stuffed with
papers
“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
......
there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless
He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts
and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
......
Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
......
like a baby left for
hours
and hours in a hot car
he
woke up
with a sweaty forehead
and a buzz
in his temples
no room to stretch
......