It's Poetry Month,
If poets wail in the woods,
Do they make a sound?
If what we write goes unread,
Why on earth do we persist?
It is madness, I insist,
No one can cure 'till we're dead.
Will we be silent, or discouraged? No!
Let our voices resonate with our truth,
Be it sweet as a ripe pomegranate,
Or sour as cheap wine left too long uncorked.
We sing as best we can in harmony,
Or screech like rusty nails caressing slate,
E pluribus unum - one family,
Embracing every country, every state.
Our voiced won't be silenced, nor our song,
For we were born to sing right notes and wrong.
Apr 4, 2022
Apr 4, 2022 at 11:44 PM UTC
It's Poetry Month,
If poets wail in the woods,
Do they make a sound?
If what we write goes unread,
Why on earth do we persist?
It is madness, I insist,
No one can cure 'till we're dead.
Will we be silent, or discouraged? No!
Let our voices resonate with our truth,
Be it sweet as a ripe pomegranate,
Or sour as cheap wine left too long uncorked.
We sing as best we can in harmony,
Or screech like rusty nails caressing slate,
E pluribus unum - one family,
Embracing every country, every state.
Our voiced won't be silenced, nor our song,
For we were born to sing right notes and wrong.
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