A Hypocritical Poet

Emerson, Tennyson, Chaucer, Shakespeare

Wadsworth, Whitman, a William several times I fear.

Poetry entered my life through reading.


From Longfellow’s nature to Hughes’ flow

from the "Free Spirit" of Angelou

to the Darkness of Poe.

I learned their literature

and appreciated their techniques.

I learned through their poems the volumes they speak.


Slavery, corruption, murder, death,

abolition, freedom, nature, reflect

on the minds of those poets and the tales they told

and the influence they had on my mind, and my soul.


Thoughts, ideas, goals, aspirations

flown from different universes, from generation to generation.

In my mind I saw the genius,

the power of their poetry,

the intricacies and convenience

and I decided try it.


I became a hypocritical poet,

one who can write and yet does not

one who knows literary devices

not in name but in thought.

Patterns and rhyme schemes I seemed to mash and mix

but in my mind the talent was fixed.


My mother encouraged my work

my talent grew,

and every so often, I learned a trick or two.


Unfortunately, I put down the “pen”,

my metaphorical sword, only to be seen

once every now and again.

My poetry skills continue to serve me well, however

especially in my musical endeavors.


It is what taught me to express myself in writing

instead of inwardly fighting and outwardly spiting.


But still hypocritical I remain

until I pick up my “pen” again.


This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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