Black Sheep’s Blight

Black Sheeps Blight short poem

Black Sheeps Blight short poemPhoto by ndrwfgg


I wonder how many poets died with voices unheard
How many minds were robbed from the herd
The amount of people with beautiful science in their mind
Forced to neglect, to go through everyday’s struggle and grind
Why must a bountiful mind, heart, and soul
Be deemed poor, unworthy of naught but a cull
Forget the dreams that only individuality could have created
Instead of thought as weird, obtuse and be always berated
Now, in the age of the God of technology and advance
Yet creativeness is merely building on the same stance
No more does culture just flourish
And left are to to only nourish
Upon the teat of the juggernaut
And it kills free thought
Pliant must the black sheep be
Unless it loves a life of misery

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Quinton McMorries

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I'm merely a wanderer, seeking to set roots and call somewhere home, It's rather tiresome to be at the whims of the wind. So, for now at least, DC is home-base for me. Always hoped to one day be a published writer/poet, but I fear this art is a dying one. If I must be one of the last standard-bearers of it, then I would call myself lucky.
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