They say,
creativity is good for the soul,
they say music
soothes the savage beast.
they say, they say all the want...
who cares about them,
are not children children
and adults adults?
Is there no difference between right and left?
And here I'm supposed to write about the lack of poetry,
or at least time for poetry.

Everyone held a balloon
that day.
A balloon full of their words from their poems.
And with a flick of your tongue,
and smirk of your face,
you popped the twenty something
balloons in your faithful audience.
And the words came crashing down
on us.
They flew around us
like a swarm of bees.
We were deflated.
We were popped.
And all for what?
More creativity?
More art?
More learning and knowledge?
Something of more worth?
But what is worth more than original poetry?
No it was for someone else's idea.
Someone else's poetry that our own were
sacrificed.
"Next class." was all the reply to
my face that looked as sour as a lemon crushed between
the knife of reality and the table of dashed hopes.
But when the muse calls,
there is to be no stopping her
there is to be no interruption.
She does not come when beckoned,
only when inconvenient.
And so I ask...
where did poetry time go?
Why did you interrupt the muse?  
This is not a protestation,
nor a declaration,
for the nation
of poets with their notion
of to the muse they give their devotion,
and to change that motion,
led to a commotion,
and she disappeared.