Poetry died for me, the moment I read it out-loud
The moment someone told me it was pretty,
or well-written and eloquently round.
Poetry died for me
the moment I thought ‘I’m special’,
When I my expression turned into
impression
Which turned into a chore.
I need to write more.
I need to write more so I can learn how to ‘better express myself.’

There is      No.         Such.        Thing.

Even ****** poems express something.
The desire to be loved.
The desire to be admired.
The desire to be accepted and connected for those more linguistically tired.
The fear of being average.
The fear of being plain.
The fear of being an unskilled cliché baring internet pseudo-name.
The loss of inspiration.
The loss of the golden hand.
The loss of the connection with the imaginary friend.
The forced similes and metaphors that explain something so mundane
Only reveal, that we want to say something but we are scared.
That no one will listen – unless you can impress…
and  make them feel the same.