"Put It Down"

Strike down the poetry. Throw it in a coffin. Nail it shut (the coffin, too).
Bury it, under dirt or water. It does not matter. Just get rid of it.
Pour acid over the originals. Wipe the memory completely.
Just be sure to relieve the world of any of my rhythms or rhyme.
Dissolve your interest, and critiques. Walk away empty-handed.
There is nothing here... for much longer. The shadow of gawdy furniture fades, as
will any remnant of what's been written. So... do away with it.
See how you feel. Then, as that feeling builds, or the plethora of sensations set in,
record those emotions to vent. But do not share them, or you will be confronted about them.
Then, like me, you will seek answers. And they are not what you desire to hear.
They vary but are the same in message: Kill it off. Plug the outlet. And leave it behind.
And you will... due to unspeakable pressure. However, I might add, it won't work.
By the time you silence your living creation, it will have learned the art of playing dead.
It will have learned to hold its breath, not losing hope. And will have memorized its way back to you.
Therefore, if you do all the above, be warned: you will fail.
Because poetry is like the superstar born to a pauper.
It is greater than its source. But, like any concerned child,
the poems will seek you-- crying to be saved.
And, since you are not really a beast, you will do just that.
You will rescue the one you meant to evade.
And you will find yourself feeding the need.
And the superstar, however immature the act, it will grow in strength.
Eventually, having learned all is needed, the poetry will begin teaching.
If you don't learn, then someone will.
But, mark my words, you cannot put away your words.
They reoccur, they develop, and they spread in time.
So, I urge you, don't spoil them, but neither injure your gift.
For a poem is more precious than a flower, it is oxygen for the hyperventalating individual.
And, you will find, your poem is a friend.
It means to defend you.
It means to protect.
It means to guard.
Poetry is, therefore, nerothing to be rid of.
Rather nurture, build up, and guide it well.
For... in time... despite your intentions,
your poem will save you grief,
as it takes the brunt of infliction.
You, then, need not swing or swipe at unfinished efforts.
"Rome was not built in a day."
But neither did it build itself.
Your reflections aide your journey.
Your poetry is an empathetic empire.
Your poetry isd reams at work.
And its only purpose is another.

Sincerely,
Once Retired Poet