The Pound

The point of the pencil broken

Ever since the words were spoken

 

Love is fickle and fleeting

Just another song repeated

 

Originality is bludgeoned

Left is another curmudgeon

 

Just a pile of verbose litter

Flushed away down the shitter

 

Nothing great in these symbols

No meaning, not even a thimble

 

Not even worth the golden pound

There was a man who gained ground

 

I am nothing to the poetry gods

All are my stanzas, really flawed

 

So, this poem is the cream of crud

Nothing heard but the heavy thud

 

And so we stop to hear the Pound

Because his work is oh so sound

Reviews

[Wretched Knight]

I also liked "I am nothing to the poetry gods
All are my stanzas, really flawed" . Great poem.

[Coyote Poetry]

Many thoughts and visions create by your words. I like the directness of each statement.
"I am nothing to the poetry gods
All are my stanzas, really flawed"
Your use of language and the way you express your view is amazing. I had to read the poem a few times. I like the strong ending to the excellent poem.
Coyote