Can one write poetry

Without pensive imagery

Meaningless metaphors

And simpering similes?

The words are treacherous

As they trip from sharpened pen

And I don't understand

The meanings in their complexity

(Even though I created them)

So I sit here, cross-legged, upon

Cushioned seat and wonder how

I got here, where I am today

If poetry is worthless

My life becomes just empty words