Shelf Life

Poems will come, poems will go, we bury them every day Yet, some achieve immortality, as fossils embedded in hardened clay How is it that some seems blessed by the pen, while standing by others judged as a mess? One has emotions which pour from the heart Others are long words in a Walmart bought dress In the morning the songbirds sing out their poem I have asked them why they know but one song? "It's expressing the one of which each one is fond, as it's not about writing, we are just calling the dawn" I have carefully examined the manner of choice, as me and myself have come to a consensus Just write from the heart, your own piece of art Then venture to Walmart, they are not that expensive As gold embedded with priceless gems, we constantly put them on display What is it that distinguishes one from the next, has nothing to do as regards what that we say