Critiquing My Own.
So,
Anyone can write, now?
Anyone can read, now?
Preach and doctor, now?
Can anyone beat now,
Now?
We,
The Shakespeares of today,
Have neither the learning,
Nor the enormous array,
Of beautiful images escaping
To earth, like a ray
Of sunshine, brightly shining,
Through clouds, on its way,
To arouse lovers, slumbering
Still, at the break o’day.
(Oblivious to sorrows, calling.)
Yes,
We can only aspire
And endeavor to acquire
Some of those achievements,
Which are the monuments,
Left behind as landmarks,
Transforming our inexperienced barks,
Into voices of reform:
Challenging the zealous Politician,
Questioning the “great” Historian,
And analyzing the media’s
Ever tantalizing “objective” ideas.
Thus,
This our journey begins,
Following in the footsteps,
Of our benevolent forefathers,
Who made the rules
And broke the rules,
Only to redefine old ones,
By creating new ones.
Oh, but
We follow the rules
We know not, while
We misuse the ones
We know, trying to
Create a form of our own:
One free from criticism,
But soon we learn,
Ours is as much
For the critic, as
It is for our
Own Catharsis.For never
Can we claim individuality
From that, our society,
Which tossed free thought
Outside in an effort,
To fashion and frame
This, our person, from
That, our purest innocence,
At our earliest infancy.
–Maria
