in my mother womb I pick a pen
poetry, prose, play and essay
four brothers of same father
tussle for my mussle and hussle
they flash around jewels that lures
be me, trick me, act me, define me
they table what they are cable
I want to be, I choose the be me.
poetry become my voice, my song
I sing amidst the chinese bamboo
the magic I await yet to bang
I sing to the nightgale all night
hunger still wipe more the day
I sing to local publications
I turn a publish poet with zero coin
I chase and sing to the seas
perhaps my song be melodious
in the foreign ears of strangers
perhaps some buck crumb down
from the table of the poetry lords
but it's all wish, easy for alm takers
be it real, they ride gaint horses
same fate for the stinking poets
cos poetry is no commercial art
only we, the passionate few stand
to walk galantly on its lone path-
and Be. As she has all promise us
kudos to bard, to the sons of word
who will never stumble nor fumble
and quit Mother's Pot cos it lacks meat.

I swear even as a fully grown adult I still don't understand poetry.

I find your write-up confusing. Your topic is totally misleading though. The poem you wrote would have looked better if you had arranged it properly.

timpaker:


I think he wrote in light poetry and probably typed from a phone.

Alright Mr Tim.

charix:
I swear even as a full adult I still don't understand poetry.

I can feel your plight, the craft is a complicated one.

JoeBlocks:
I find your write-up confusing. Your topic is totally misleading though. The poem you wrote would have looked better if you had arranged it properly.

I intentionally wrote it like that to depict how complicated and confusing peotry can be.

Poetry Tah! They are Artistes who can't sing, writers who can't write and men who can't get laid.





Truly, poetry is a grand profession