Poetic Labyrinth

A poem about poetry.

Poetry is like
an empty labyrinth.
It keeps you trapped in its emptiness,
never lets you go.

It is...
Confusing
Boring
Tiring

There's no treasure involved,
to excite you.
There's no Minotaur,
to keep you on your toes.

If there were a Minotaur,
you surely wouldn't be
bored or tired then.
The Minotaur would take it personally.

There is no ball of string,
to help you escape.
You've been walking forever,
but it never seems to end.

What of the fourteen sacrifices,
given to the Minotaur every 7 years?
Did they escape already,
or are they simply non-existent?

 Poetry is like a labyrinth,
you never know the meaning.
It's always endlessly boring,
that's just the way it is.

Poetry is boring.
It wastes your time.
You'll fall asleep having anything to do with it,
which just wastes more time.

Author's Note

Po T the Mini-taur bath-ing in a labby-rinth with a riffle and a ribbern by his side.
(Don't mind me, I just had to write that. It's a joke between me and someone who doesn't actually happen to be a friend anymore.)