Poetic Apocalypse
It's the apocalypse of the antipoetic,
some are apoplectic, instead of apologetic,
this is no diplomatic 'dead poet's society',
but the anxiety results in notoriety,
increasing dubiety for word weaving variety.
The grammar police pursue like the four horsemen,
trying to silence my poetic garden's endorphins.
Pouring petrol upon my enchanted petals,
burning the rain, before sweet petrichor settles,
so onyx skies, thundering cries and lullabies,
slay my sentiments like premature butterflies.
Where is my dark angel friend to protect my quill,
before I double down on poetic forms against free will.
When creativity is silenced it's a suicide of speech,
a hypocritical rhetoric is not what hallowed halls teach.
Wizardry of words have no hoodoo or voodoo on your muse,
write about love's labyrinth, rage or life in a way you choose.
Beauty of poetry lies in the eye of the beholder,
poems that merge in harmony bring the rat race closer.
Outside the winds of illiteracy, words want to be free,
to release ink, until your heart's last stand - that's poetry!
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