State of the draught

I have been trying to write my thoughts  

In their fairly complex nature they reveal little  

At a time I am stubborn as a drunk ox and poke at them  

They yield I persist I pen them down  

To freeverse poetry or something akin to  

But the larger part of the current world conspires  

Throwing mediocrity bringing up lyrics  

Nearly all sound like the writer's brain had diarrhoea  

Or that they vomited words drunk on drain cleaner  

These were made into songs  

All civilizations form, rise to power, peak, and begin to rot  

This could be the state of literature I infer  

Poetry now is in palliative care  

Devoid of hope  

Trying to stay aflame  

Yet out of oil  

Unbeknownst  

Burning to the wick  

I still scribble metaphors  

My barrage of constructs may not be poetry  

But I am happy they are not made into songs  

For the brains that have subscribed to mediocrity  

Won't find a guide rail to form cognitive thoughts  

Stay clear of such writings  

Such as mine  

For this requires some thought  

Even to disregard  

I will ignore the state of now of poetry and stories  

Hold my keel and navigate through this draught  

Maybe swim in the receding waters too  

But I refuse to write  

Unworthy mediocre thoughts