Here they are;
Marketed as novice literature
Who’s to say of their quality?
To some, they may be akin
To 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 think
And what I think,
I write down
It 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 road
Before I’d even laced up my boots?
If I were to set off on a diatribe
Regarding 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 any
But, in the end,
Does it really matter?