*~*Poets*~*

I sit here drowning in my pride,
Of all these things I cannot hide.
It means so much a page in a book,
One you can feel and people can look.
Like a rose in a gardener's hand,
Or a delicate flute in your school band.
You become so happy that its there,
If it was gone you couldn't bare.
To be published is all we want,
That makes us the people they taunt.
We try hard to find the right place,
That has just a little space.
Enough for at least one little poem,
You wait for their call while you're at home.
When they don't you get sad,
You think your poems don't mean anything that they're bad.
But all poets criticize their own work,
So we sneak around fellow poets and we lark.
Try to see if they're any good,
You think they're so great and should.
Be in another plain poet book,
And once you get caught you're stuck on the hook.
Then they pretend and say yes,
Yet their company is already in a big mess.
So we back away make sure we don't get screwed,
I don't know why or who'd.
Want to do this to their fellow friends,
They become our enemies at the end.