The Poet Workshop

Much does he love, at workshops’ feat,
The grandeur of the poet meet.
To see the writer calm and trying
For a rendition of his crying.

Smooth words said with disdain temper
Followed by the cough and then a wimper.
Such workshops give a weak mind pause
To think one is a poet and to seek applause.

But nothing comes to prove it’s all in vain
As fast as the blank page of empty pain.
This empty goes from brain to page
And settles on his hate-filled rage.

He writes of trash and liar’s crime
And tries real hard to make it rhyme.
The words are formed but not as verse
For workshops don’t help the obverse.