When I read a stranger’s poetry,
I often do prepare
for too much sentimentality
and more clichés than I care bare.
Rhyming words are thrown abound;
archaic words are too much seen.
The poets merely like the sound,
with little care for what they mean.
But sometimes, I’m forced to stand,
and I pace around the room,
for the poet has put heart to hand,
and deep within me their words loom.