The Unpublished Poet

They might have solved the question of life

And no one would ever know it

Because that is the turmoil

Of the unpublished poet.

Revelations and expressions

Lost to the passage of time

Unappreciated and unread

The fate of unpublished rhyme.

Molding and twisting

Thoughts into form

Or dropping all pretentions

And departing from the norm

The verse is familiar

To the one that reads and writes

And through the keys works out

Their hopes, fears, insights.

Without someone to appreciate

The private soul projection

There is no need to worry

About arbitrary rejection.

For what is the purpose

Of putting pain to verse

If an evaluation

Serves to make that pain worse?

And how might appraisal

Of a private thing

Provide any value

To that private being?

Does it serve a community

To share one’s reflection?

Or does it serve the ego

Of those that make a selection?

Must something be appreciated

To have inherent worth?

And must something be preserved

To be a piece of art?

Is a poet not a poet

Unless they publish a poem?

Is an insight not insightful

Unless it takes a certain form?

Rough around the edges

With a purposeful cliché

The poem breaks its scheme

Briefly along the winding way

Unpolished and raw

The words never to be shared

But a glimpse into the past

To when the poet cared

Enough to take their feelings

Tease and draw them out

And place them in an order

The world will have to do without.

The poet will find them later

Nostalgically recalling

Linking thoughts together

In a way others might find appalling.

Do not underestimate

The unpublished poet

They may be a genius

But have no cause to show it.

Maybe they are a fool

None would really know

Based on all the evidence

The unpublished poet does not show.