Words slam onto the page like waves crashing against rocks. The silent poetry of unspoken words shout into the mind like a single note of a piano key, somber and ignorant. Thoughts clash together like a violent game of bumper cars, somehow forming a sentence. Feelings rush into the heart, through one pump and out the other, dodging any questioning thoughts in sight. Passion flows into the poem with every thump thump of the heart and every movement of the eyes as they trace the words with desperation. My life is poured into a single page, every raw feeling laid out gently for the garage sale that is filled with the sleeping consciousness of judgment and desire for approval. Each work of art here has felt the lust of approbation. Papers containing breathtaking truths and confessions are wiped from existence with a single thought of disapproval. Judgment swipes across the grassy plains of poems and leaves each author heartbroken, alone in a soulless desert of nothingness. A few pieces of art remain in the garage sale, yet one is specifically chosen by a customer. He examines it with his icy blue eyes, each word freezing over with his arbitrary glare. He looks at the all-knowing owner of all of these poems, addresses him by his name tag, “Hello, Society, I would like to keep this poem. How much does this fine work of art cost?” Society replies, “Oh that old thing? You can have it for free. It was never worth much to me.” The man nods his head and walks away, the seemingly worthless piece of art clasped gently in his hand. The poems sit on the lawn of earth and gaze sadly alongside their authors as a few works of art are chosen while they are overlooked. One author walks up to the man with eyes of convincing conformity and begs him, “Sir, what makes that poem so special? Didn’t an equal share of effort go into this poem?” The hopeful author holds up his piece, his lifetime achievement now sitting at a garage sale, and says, “I poured my sweat and blood and tears into this poem. What makes that poem better?” The man gazes down over his glasses at the work of art in the author’s hand, “I simply enjoy this one more.” The author walks back to his standing place, feet trudging along the dying grass that is the hope for this generation. Words slam onto the page like tears bursting onto the ground in a hollow sorrow that fills and corrupts the mind. The silent poetry of unspoken words shout into the mind like a single drop of ink onto the page, drip, dripping, until a mad scribbling takes over the quiet void with a gasping urge to cram any amount of words into the wretched chasm of ripped papers to avoid falling in along with the misunderstood poems that lay broken at the bottom of the pitch black gorge. Poetry cannot be judged, because in each piece of paper lies the piece of a fragile soul, vulnerable to society's opinion and in need of protection and nurishment through encouraging words.