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.
