There is danger in being a poet, a razor tongue draws blood without pain
Long hours of brain's sweat falls into an empty pocket with no visible gain
Word toys of women and boys outgrown when he becomes a man
Expected to hold emotional breath till death or as long as he can
Critic's guns intent to maim all take aim on the heart of a naked name
Metaphors of speech the deaf you can't teach rolling their eyes in blame
Vulture birds they pick at private words vomiting bones and gristle that stick
They ride a storm over form, rhyme and time, doctors looking for the sick
-
Author:
sorenbarrett (
Online) - Published: January 2nd, 2026 02:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Online)
Comments1
On hazards, a nasty poet on another site commented on lots of poems - 'I don't care much for this poem!' They may have hounded him off the site with a 'good riddance!'
Oh dear he sounds familiar. Thanks for the read my friend and the warning. Duly noted.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.