Road to Obscurity
How many poems must we write
to maintain the poets lofty height?
How many words must we pen
to create the perfect poetic gem?
Do we write to satisfy our need
to be recognized for the creative deed?
Or do we write because we must
with no regard for others trust?
It seems that works having once been read
Tend to gather mold like aging bread
The latest poem being our hearts delight
While yesterday’s fade out of sight
If as a poet your only concern
Is to churn out words at every turn
With little regard for their destiny
Chances are they will fade into obscurity
When two hundred poems have come and gone
Filed away having once been spawned
Treat each one as a precious friend
And they will reward you in the end
For on some cold and lonely night
Without a single friend in sight
You can retrieve thoughts from the past
By reading poems you wrote to last
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