Must we really live the lives ?
The lives we describe on every single line.
The unending tears we scattter on every page.
The anguish, heartaches, sorrows…and the pain.
What makes a reader willing, to read each word, each line?
Are they really able to relate, saying ” Hey this is my life!”
When a poet writes of joyous times, of happiness & free-flowing wine,
Do the readers read that too, with a smile?
What if I find the need, the need to just be myself.
Would what I write be the same, would it be ever read.
Or would they plainly reject, terming the topic to be lame and often read?
These questions I ask, quite poetic ones you see.
To write as a poet… Must We?
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