Keep your handza’s off my stanza’s

There comes a time
in the young poets life, where he
must decide who he wants to
be or not to be.

Sure, plagiarism show the absence of talent.
It is a product of no good.
Though I empathise with the struggle of finding yourself
at two roads, diverged, in a yellow wood.

The indecision of poetry could drive any man,
To stop all the clocks. Cut off the telephone.
But stealing the voice of another,
is no way to go.

Be the bright sunlight of authenticity,
Don’t let a summer’s day compare.
And when you find yourself short of words;
friends, romans, countrymen, might lend you theirs.