Sunshine and flowers,
Poetic tears and bittersweet love,
The perfect ingredients to deep poetry.
The same mix of aesthetics, over and over.
The same feelings, stories, heartbreak, and revelations.
Again and again and again.
A story retold, never dying.
A Mother Gothel of literature.
Is it you? Is it me? Is it all of poetry?
Bland, unseasoned cliches,
Reused daily to create a false sense of profundity.
Is it uncreativity, or a loss of inspiration?
Have we become robots?
Is it just me?
Why is there no new poetry?
Trapped in the final days,
Everything’s been done.
What is the point of creating if it's dim and dead?
A look-alike, cast onto a pile of millions of others, uninspired.
Life is purposeless without originality.
Our generation follows trends and remakes the same thing over and over.
We sing the same songs,
Write about the same things,
Argue over the same topics.
Our monotonous lives lack meaning,
And it bleeds into our art.
Where is the soul that once was?
Am I the only one that sees it?
It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Could it be that only I see the same things,
Or does what I say truly hold meaning?
My heart is heavy and my mind weary.
The passion for creativity seems to be forgotten.
Perhaps I have forgotten.