A late night poem

You need not speak with cruelty,
for little warmth do cold words bring.
Perhaps some inspiration
would have been a kinder thing?
Less harsh criticism, maybe,
A gentler mentor's notes?
He may have flourished beneath your wings
if, instead, you'd given hope.
Take a moment to imagine
sending out into the lands,
an army of great poets
all smartly trained by your skilled hands!
The world can use more stories,
More songs and poems and art...
Why not add to this world's beauty?
Listen closely to your heart!
Friend, I beg you in the future
To stay the sting inside your quill,
You never know who you might help to grow,
And if you don't try... you never will!

Is this what you all waste your time on?
I must have been quite mistaken in that I thought most of you spent copious amount of time helping people.
I guess this must be the same thing to most of you.

Ava, dear, just this one time
you were supposed to make all your words rhyme!
It's kind of fun, give it a go!
You might even like it... You never know.

(OOG: Not Kanas)

How very interesting,
That the poetic verse could be used for quibbling.
Rather than congratulate a poet and his scribbling,
The written word was only used for belittling.

Constructive criticism it may be,
But not everyone would see.
For from one pair of eyes, it might be one thing,
But from another it was just someone taking a swing.

Rather than embarrass, we must encourage,
In posting new work, it takes courage.
Instead of discourage,
Let fledgling poets flourish.

Mr. S, as you know and adhere,
There is one thing that poets fear.
When people decide to laugh and jeer
At the work that you hold dear.

So let the lad grow.
He might become a pro.
You never know.

Dr. Isaac Percy Goggins

P.S. To the man who posted his poem and tore it off,
Don't be afraid.

It seems that the writings have dawned the walls of the Dragon's Claw/
So I believe it is time for me to scratch out one of these for you all/
The original poem I saw it in a passing glance, only to laugh about how barely passable it was/
The wit was low, the words lacking passion/
The writer must have had an attack of gas whilst he writ/

Now onto Ava who believed that our free time is spent solely helping others/
And yes we do help but all work and no play makes us a dull flock of feathers/
We need time to stretch our wings, fly into what makes us laugh, smile, and cry/
To get in touch with our emotions and our comrades who are always by our sides/
It is a time of rejoice, a time of celebration/
So to keep this short and sweet, poetry is the best form of commemoration/

Signed, With Truth,
Jack Dimms.

Swyft, don't be too hard on dear Avaiiden
Her workload in New Andover is so heavily laden
Her addition, merely a haiku in true form,
Will someday, perhaps, become the new norm


Nalick