No one respects a poet

Nobody respects a poet- they just don't care.
Inciting prejudice upon what we write, calling it 'emotional flair'
and misinterpreting our meanings- labeling our works with one word,
be it 'pretty', 'confusing', 'superb', or even 'absurd'.

No one focuses on the points that we're trying to make-
unnoticed are the tears upon the trails we've had to take.
Visual stimulation and the next quick fix
is what grabs the collective conscience in an iron-clad fist.

The paint for our Picasso lies within vocabulary-
our inspiration? A cigarette, the local library,
the pain of losing someone, rediscovering life-
this can all be used as fodder for the fire that we light
within our minds- we put our very lives out on the line
to elicit a sense of insight to what we've seen in our time,
but no one wants to hear it- they turn a deaf ear
to our outpourings of adoration.
Of hatred.
Of fear.

They don't respect the craft- for example, I could rant

on
with a
line-break style
and you can
still understand
the

point that I'm trying to make- this is art.
For alot of us out there, this is where life starts,
within the word- we find ourselves amidst a pen,
a piece of paper & make use of determination from within.

We don't seek recognition- we're not in it for the fame.
Most of us don't write to get people to know our names,
its our artistic expression- don't lessen that aspect
just because when you read what we write you can't grasp it.

We are the Rodney Dangerfields of the growing art community-
we don't get no respect, but that's okay, because we've got poetry.