I write to make a poem,
A poem without flaws.
It tries to convey a message,
One deeper and more sophisticated.
Feelings,
Meaningful to the subject.
Then the poem is viewed by its critics.
They like it,
But it does not fully satisfy them.
One says, “Oh, it is written so eloquently,
however it doesn’t particularly meet my standards.”
With this,
The poem and its writer sat back down,
And began again.
This time,
The job would be completed together,
To ask what others might seek.
We came in together,
For the better.
This time,
Another exclaims,
“It simply cannot be considered a poem,
It doesn’t even have a rhyme scheme!”
I attempted to explicate that I had put their critical advice to use,
But they looked at me and simply said,
“You didn’t use it right.”
...My poem went away,
For another day.
Like a writer,
Without a brain.
I’ll take a pencil,
And try again.
A persistence,
That shall not end.