an attempt at poetry

chapter 15: 'I admire these poets'

Poets write what they think,

They turn it into ink,

But their words don't constantly spin,

And always somehow have a link,

Mine are lost and puzzled,

So unnaturally put together,

That it almost feels like they're glued,

Standing on a stage being 'booed'

That's why I look at them strange,

When my friends say my words engage,

Making me wonder if they've ever read a single page,

Of a true poet's piece that talks about rage,

Thinking back I haven't either,

Maybe that's why my lines are weaker,

Of course, I've never been a reader!

And so I decide to dig a bit deeper,

How do they ponder such thoughts?

Are they about a time where they felt lost?

Or about what's left of a battle they once fought?

I feel like I'm being stalked,

How do they know about the love I once sought?

Or every life lesson I've been taught?

It sends shivers down my spine,

How all our stories align,

How these poets from 1891,

Have completely read my mind,

I should be thanking them I guess,

As they've saved me all that stress,

And poetically put into words,

What's left of the mess in my head.