People tell me poetry is dead.
And those words like a slender knife,
slice a sliver of my soul.
I bleed.
Poetry is not dead!! — I silently scream.
When your words cut like knives,
poetry is very much alive.
Each verse is carefully crafted and
dripping with color and deafening with noise.
Poets will scour the ends of the earth
for the perfect word.
And when you immerse your imagination in a poem,
your world will spin and your heart will sing.
Poetry moves and dances. It slices and stains.
It trancends time and space.
Don’t listen to what they say
Poetry is not dead.
But only you can make it come to life.
