Is my poetising that much of a crime?
That my mentor forgets me,
Disdains what I try make sublime.
His works tell stories.
Whilst mine ghost at ideas,
A moment, a phrase, a thought-span.
Maybe my thin voice hollows through my rhyme.
Or my scratchy hand casts spidery shadows amongst these walled fonts.
mOre perhaps my syntax lacks both metre and time.
So holds he, the wisdom of the three monkeys to be not in vain.
And elects to "Hear no, see no and ignores that pain."
Or maybe our cultures are different,
And whilst I straddle the twain.
He cannot comprehend my hidden meaning
That drips from me as an effluent from a factory plant.
Maybe I'm all made up,
And IKEA is my being,
My end, middle and beginning.
Where his stories are real,
That my imitation cannot reveal.
My attempt at packaged art,
Factory constructed, homely assembled words.
Makes my world, home.
Although I do not rate this as a beautiful poem. It has it's place. Just as a Dishwasher has a place in an IKEA fitted kitchen. :)
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