Somebody said that poetry is dead;
I hope for my sake that his statement’s wrong,
For if it is, I have so much to dread:
I’ve lost my thoughts and tunes expressed with song,
I’ve lost the many lines inspired I’ve wrote,
The rhyming words--well, they just don’t exist;
And time that I now to this work devote
Is gone just like the passing morning mist.
And contests that I’ve entered are in jest,
For they can’t offer any kind of prize;
The books they offer--filled with emptiness
If ever this great literate talent dies.
Well, I don’t think that poetry has died,
And as for all those narrow-minded men,
They once again with their comments have lied,
Attempting to keep silent someone’s pen.
As long as words in any language rhyme,
As long as thoughts in any man can thrive,
As long as history ticks the pass of time,
The good news is that poetry is alive!