A wise man once said “It’s wrong when it stops being fun.”
Well, I have to ask myself, has it?
Has pining over the right word and cadence lost its spark?
What, except the dark cloud that seeps its invisible cloak on my psyche,
Keeps me from putting all for the gods and earthly kind to see,
to learn the truth.
Poetry is not supposed to be work,
or is that too bourgeois?
I say poetry like anything can be rebranded for the worst,
but poetry is thought, the one thing that cannot be erased.
Poetry, is something to make all our own.
So, has it stopped being fun?
Not by a long shot.