Poetry: Poetry

Here they are;My thoughts Marketed as novice literatureWho’s to say of their quality?To some, they may be akinTo the works of laureates;To others, they may read like sophomoric scribblings in an eighth grader’s diary I know little of form;But I know what I thinkAnd what I think,I write downIt may be refuse,Or it may be gold;It’s not for me to say,But rather a subject to individual judgement If I were to write of love,How many a scribe had tread the roadBefore I’d even laced up my boots?If I were to set off on a diatribeRegarding the state of things and the powers that be, Would I be bringing about anything thus far unsaid?And what of a love unrequited? To think myself as having been the sole occupant of this vast vessel would be folly The world is not original;Nor anything within it.It is retread after retread after retread;Changes are minor, if there be anyBut, in the end,Does it really matter?