What rhyme hasn’t been said?
What concept hasn’t been read?

Poetry is now an art that I dread
because whenever an original idea forms in my head,
I am accused of copying a random poet who is dead.

After the process used all my pencil’s lead
turned my cheeks red,
and forced tears to be shed
my efforts become vain instead.

Down a dead-end road I warily tread
because the past holds all water and bread.

This is a path that must be fled.
So let’s rip all poems written before now to shreds
and put all the old poets to bed!