Frustration

What happened to feeling the words?
What happened to imagining the scene?
What happened to priding the content?
Whatever happened to poetry?

Where is the truth between the lines?
Where is the play of different sounds?
Where is the sense that's brought to it all?
Where are the poems?

Why does it absolutely need to rhyme?
Why can't it just be a random line?
Why does it have to sound fluent, and so loud?
Why can't poems just be poems?

When will the madness come to an end?
When will feelings come forth in a word or two?
When will poets stop trying to shine?
When will poetry live on after it's been read?

How can someone be so naive to the hidden meanings?
How can we let our passion die?
How can we just stand by and not try to fight it?
How can poetry just be let go?

I write because I have to,
I write because I need a relief from life,
I write because I can,
I don't write to please anyone,
only myself...