Poetry

Poetry is Dead

A man, who had been known to me

For being level headed

He said, “I love your poetry

It’s some of the best I’ve read.”

He felt he had to show to me

That we have thicker skin to shed,

“No one knows that I’m a poet, see,

Cause poetry is dead”

“Cause men like us, emotionally

We have so much to dread,

For me, no one upholds my needs

As a man of a weaker head”

So I said unto the faithless man,

“You have no weaker head,

You simply do not understand

The gift with which we’re blessed”

“For men like us, we’re made to lead

With words which we, in care, express,

The men like us who used to breathe

Were giants, hoisting our expense”

“So grow, uphold our call to peace,

For which these writers lived to death,

Do not let your soul choke in society,

Cling on to your precious breath”

“And worry less of what I need

And be a force of love to spread,

Now hear me once, loud, and clearly:

Poetry was never dead.”