A War on Poetry

Winter takes this ground 

Like every hope I've ever known 

Everything's been said 

As all the feelings had before 

Cliché the poets notes; 

Wasted words blot the pages 

Mundane written sentences 

The same things rearranged. 

This blocking of your mind 

In scribbled little Typefaces 

Couldn't display more deeper 

That your poetry is just complaining. 

Have you ever searched for words? 

Or caught a glimpse of intelligence? 

Guided by your heart 

Your pen is written in selfishness. 

Can you tell a story, without recurring themes? 

Your poetry is just a diary, of your unattainable dreams. 

We could talk about expression,

A vague meaning that forms our art...

But it's a pointless point to point out 

No one will remember who you are. 

Here we are again, reading through this shit 

If your writing is not that great then just put down the pen 

So close the book and look away, and go find another thing, 

The writer's right is to write the rites of passages that sting.