Poetry Boors

Words have no substance or so I am told,
one day I will do a critique,
cliques will die in their shock,
I'll be the flavour of the week,
my name shall be in letters, bright and bold,
well that is just a crock.

Unlock minds,
so what if I
do it my way and not yours.

Boors, poetry boors are never consoled,
here is a crazy, jumping shriek,
speak and then rush to block,
I'm sorry for not being bleak,
analytical as I slice with cold
fingers, as hard as rock.

Flock and find
your own kind's sighs,
stop moaning, draw in those oars.

Ignore's an option if you don't like me,
freedom of choice, use it then be arty.

-

eye queue

eye taps fine lashes
nature whittles away souls
in the queue of life

.