Go ahead, read that book, connect the dots,
Unleash the inner vulture, feast on the thoughts.
There's nothing original, just regurgitated rot,
To repackage old wisdom, is the human lot.
You can summon the muse, at your will and behest,
You take great pride in your craft, you are the absolute best.
A creator par excellence, you lean on others' shoulders,
A David sculpting himself, you chip off on their boulders.
One day, what happens, when their ideas don't appeal,
Do you suddenly realize, you are human and can feel?
You don't need to synthesize, just pour what's in your heart,
The poem may turn out empty, but you'd rediscover your art.
Enough of hiding behind sonnets, written as a reaction to others' views,
Let emotions ooze down as ink, filling the page, and your life, with blues.
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