Working Class Poet

If there was  meaning to poetry
I would say that it never did add meaning
It always led to an unending reasoning
No matter how good my poetry may sound
For me, i’m the worst poet that is around
But this is my true language, you sycophantic linguistics
There are so many great poems down in the logistics
i want mine to fly around like the leaves when in Autumn
If Elliot is the face, then i’m the bottom
A low working class poet is what i am
Slowly building my poetry dam
Because i’m going to build it high and wide
It’s going to be neat by the side
And its going to be colorful all along the way
So that nice little people would say
“Hey!” ha ha ha what an expression,eh?
Sometime’s the colors might become grey
And my damn might leak and my imagination may run a stray
Because all the laughers of laugh will laugh all the time
To my every sentence and even to the littlest rhyme
I don’t care as i am doing it right
According to my heart,mind and soul
Building this dam, is my biggest goal



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