I thought we were here for the poetry
Not to win a popularity contest and gloat arrogantly about how loved we are
Not to make friends with multiple personas of the same person
and wait for likes and comments to come pouring in on our *******

I thought we were here for the stories penned by talented writers and for inspiration in our own work
Not to plagiarize the writing of others and steal something from them that can't be replaced
Or to bring others down by telling them they're not welcome here
To bash others openly, repeatedly, harshly
making them feel like their words are not as important

I thought we were here for the poetry
not to call each other names,
slandering the only thing that separates us from everyone else in our lives;
our words

But I hang my head as I realize we're no longer here for the poetry
We're here to make war with each other out of petty differences and jealousies
when we should be using that passion to create inspiration from each other

A yellow brick road laid down in front of me, one slab at a time
I took a step along the path to see what I could find
A scarecrow cried out for help, sounded like he was in pain
I asked him what he needed and he expressed to me; "a brain."

So I cut my forehead carefully, and took mine from my skull
I placed it in his head and said; "there, now your mind is full."

He thanked me as I wandered on to find another friend
I met a lion on the bricks whose life was at its end
He was afraid of everything, and he was so discouraged
So I reached into my gut and I gave him all my courage

He smiled and waved as I left to give someone else a hand
And I heard the cries of sadness from a rusted, old tin man
I asked him what he needed and he wailed out; "a heart!"
So I cut myself open and tore my ribs and chest apart

Now that I am empty;
I'm dumb, scared, sad and alone
All that I can think is; "there is no place like home."

There was a runner, a fisherman and a photographer
and they all dreamt of seeing the Northern Lights
when they got there
the fisherman ran,
the runner stopped to take a photo
and the photographer sat and stared

There was a poet, a carpenter, and a lunatic
and they all dreamt of fame.
It was all about timing
and when the season came,
the carpenter built a guitar,
the lunatic wrote a memoir,
and the poet only wrote masterpieces after countless hours in a bar.

There was a student, an architect, and an engineer
and they all dreamt of freedom
from the chains of class, work, or the past
They were not unique in their envy
and were assigned to design a levy
that would hold water for the town
enough to quench rich thirst
and enough to drown

The architect sent the design first,
The engineer built a key like a curse
to unlock the levy upon request
the student observed, but imprisoned by impatience, could not rest
thought there was freedom in approval
so pridefully, he pulled
he stood on a hill ready for renewal
had studied the design of the levy and all of its features
had built a key, better than his teacher's
unlocked the levy and washed out the town
but absorbed in his plan, he forgot to warn the (one) man
and watched how even ideas drown