The flower sways to the indelible curves of destiny,
and spring, that ancient gracer of landscapes,
gazes from afar as if in exile.
There, this is the moment.
And afterwards, the perishing flower,
the cold winter.
I would not have written this in a million years were it not to show you the kind of gibberish that passes for poetry nowadays. A self-styled poet sits at her computer or, if she happens to be old-fashioned, a typewriter, and lets her mind run amuck, deeming every word she produces to be the unmistakable expression of her spontaneous ingenuity. Well, it isn't. And using a typewriter isn't going to help either.
Thy heart is a garden brimming to the brim,
Thy voice like chimes that thou had long-imprisoned,
For thee, O Nymph, I doubt not, the world is blest.
This is how you say "bad poetry" using more than two words. It's someone who couldn't comprehend an iota of Shakespeare might write in an attempt emulate that great bard. Never mind that it wholly lacks meter or rhyme and, indeed, does not express any remarkable sentiment, the "thou" and "thee" are enough to make it sound Shakepeare-like. The poor man must be turning in his grave.
I thought I was in a dark place,
but when I looked inside,
the courage of my heart illuminated the world
like a new-born sun.
And this, this is something I most definitely could have written. That is if I were among those unfortunate ones who have no knowledge of poetry whatsoever and are utterly incapable of experiencing the finer feelings that life has to offer. An avant-garde visionary, I would have deemed myself, and since my "poems" would have been short and easy to digest, I would have no doubt garnered a substantial following on the web. How glad I am to not be this person!
But hey, it's all subjective. Right?