How very sad it is, to undo the poet at her very soul.
Taking up the hammer of criticism, to bludgeon her whispering muse.
Darkening the light that brought life to her thoughts.
We have all encountered the paper-thin jingles that pass for profound poetic outpouring. Some of us have suffered nearly irreparable harm to our eyes, while reading such claptrap. But, alas, it is still out there; awaiting another encounter with an innocent reader, who will likely fall prey to some nitwit ideas of love, life, spiritual renewal or worse still...poetry!
How did they get to call themselves "Poets"; taking up the mantle of Byron, Shelly, Dr. Seuss? It's as much a mystery as cursive writing is to kids today!
There is still the glimmer of hope, faint though it may be, that these pretenders to the title "poets" who keep turning out "poetry" like strings of sausage, will one day read what they produced and cry till their eyes turn to stones!!
(The above rant is brought to you after the unearthing and immediate destruction, of self-absorbed outpourings by a young Francesca Quarto. God forgive her...)