Poems

My poems, they don't rhyme,

My poems, they don't shine,

My poems, they aren't beautiful,

Nor are they good.

Maybe that's why I doubt it,

Can they even be called poems?

Sure, they carry a part of me,

A shattered piece of my broken soul,

Sure, they carry emotions,

I've buried deep within,

And surely, I do bleed on paper,

Like the others,

But I don't think they can be called poems,

Because they aren't beautiful,

Because they don't rhyme,

And nor do they shine,

These are just a broken piece of mine,

That's why they can't be called poems,

And I can't be called a poet.