A poem is just a bunch of words
Unless somebody reads it
And, like a plant, will droop and fade
If there's no one to feed it.
It doesn't need a lot of care
To help with its survival,
Just someone to acknowledge it
And welcome its arrival.
A quick perusal will suffice
Though surely there's no onus,
But if more readers get on board,
Of course, that is a bonus.
The poet writes because she must
And plants her words, not knowing
If they will wither on the vine
Or maybe keep on growing.
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