Poetry Writes You Poem by Yohan Confectioner

We are controlled by you,
We write as you command.

At first when you came through me,
Petrarch spread his arms wide around.

When i could embrace what Petrarch couldn't,
My words were of a Wordsworthian bliss.

As i grew, the mighty Victorians struck me down,
With artistic language iced by pride and vainglory.

The gap then grew large, and you tucked
Yourself away, bidding time till the next.


- - - - - - - - - - - -


Today, I am stuck in a modern life,
Craving for a conventional one

I'd like to believe i'm a romantic by heart,
And pen blissful lines of symmetry,
But my capital of existence is MODERN,
And my language is coarse.

It has no blend, lacks grace, finds no rhythm,
Is jarred at every unmeaning move.

This language is modern,
And you have your grip over me,
Once again.



Nov 2014