Poets and Poetry

Poetry is quite simple
Like death at local Temple
Even a tiny wimp will
Speak to the genius of it.


I am not alone in my respite
In my opinion as I cite
Truths about poetry despite
My tendency to lie.

Though many have already spoken
Their views they have betokened
Their words have still been broken
By logical class students.


There’s nothing that makes us more cry
Leaving skin and wet eyes dry
Than a poet’s artistic lie
Told for their inner pleasure.


For poets are not man
In order to withstand
At any instant command
Their pen and paper


For as they taper and caper passions accurse
Teeming with emotions ready to burst
Glasses raised slowly, but first
Poets have nursed from a river
That quenches all thirsts.


Their words becoming fire
Hoping to inspire the entire
Population creating a sensation
To become aberrations with a desire to inquire
About unknowns with no retire.
Watch as we climb higher and higher
Away from reality


It’s a vicious beauty
Ripping us from civic duty
To calm the unruly
And upset


But as we are, it shall be
For no laws govern poetry.
And if we are to exist
Following some decree
I oblige to persist
That this one truth go unmissed
As if being kissed
By life and death


Poets are born and then they are dead
And little can be said for we all will shed this mortal coil
And although everything will spoil
Down to the last grain of soil (watch as something great unfoils)
Words will remain.

Inspired by "Ars Poetica" by Archibald Macleish
Erica S. 5th period