Poetry's Dead Poem by The Poet Darkling

Ideas haunt us every night
Cause us to toss around in bed
Awake to write, pour our hearts out
To release the spooks from our head

With each word, we're healing the scar
Of a place in us where we've bled
Or capturing a memory
Of some profound thing that was said

But no one cares to see our souls
Nor walk a road which we have tread
Our poems seem to go unnoticed
Our limericks gather dust, unread

We're using words to give thoughts life
But they all may as well be shred
How do we continue to write
Now that we've learned poetry's dead?

We see it's ghost around sometimes
In a song or something we've read
But all the REAL poetry's gone
We're being fed drivel instead

The thought of holding it all in
Fills us with the worst kind of dread
Without our usual release
We'd be hanging on by a thread

We have no choice but go forward
And follow where our pens are led
Even if no one will read it
Or they prefer drivel instead

For what's a poet without rhyme?
'Tis like a sandwich without bread!
There's no option but to write
Even though poetry is dead!