You pick up life's odds
and mask those under a coating of heavy words,
Words that are glossy, Words that are hollow
Words made big with intellectual humbug...
Poet, you mean creature
You make no difference to my miseries, my sorrows.
You lap up my misfortunes
And make money out of my death and grime.
Poet, you mean creature,
Leave my privacy to me...
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6 comments:
So you're a poet - is this a self criticism?
Whoa. . . .
:-o
Gauri - The poor have no stomach for poems. Don't blame the poet.
- Joe.
I feel that the poor like poetry just as much as the rich as long as they can read. Maybe the poet is the one to blame!
I am totally in awe after reading these words. As if you have peneed down me. If I have ask this question "Me?" to myself, Yes....I am Me!
poets, writers, journalists -- why everyone like to make stories out of other's life!
Isn't tat a psychological obsession! :)
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