Behold them, the poets of strife,
Hurling verses like blades of life.
Igniting discord with grandiose lines,
Forgetting that poetry is art, not war's design.

Where is the beauty in words so sharp?
Only insults, a shadowed heart.
Rhymes entwined with bitter flame,
Dulling the craft, leaving only blame.

They claim, "This is art supreme,"
Yet only echoes of scorn they scream.
Metaphors and imagery tainted by spite,
Where is harmony, where is delight?

Poetry is the song of a sincere soul,
Not a weapon to strike foes whole.
They tarnish rhythm with burning disdain,
Turning art into a battlefield's domain.

Oh, how wasted the ink that flows,
To scorch instead of inspire souls.
Let them argue, let their fury ignite,
While true poetry stands in its pure light.

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From the deepest part of my heart, as a lover of poetry, I beg you: Please channel your frustration not through words, but through actions. Your words are truly powerful, but unfortunately, you are ruining the beauty and harmony of poetry itself.

With utmost respect,
Sphael

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Valnuary, in the year 966 AF.