Hi guys! I'm new here but have a love for poetry so thought I'd share this poem I wrote, enjoy! And thanks for reading!
I wish we could go back,
To when poetry had meaning
When using it to express love was original and not cheesy
And when it wasn't just used to express displaced rage.
When expressive clichés had yet to be said
When fantastical analogies had yet to be read
When studying poetry in school was progressive,
Not a module to dread.
When eager eyes waited in dark alleyways to read the latest works,
When poetry was taboo and exciting due to all of its radical quirks
When the music was made up of dirges and hymns
Making the romantics fine work that was written on whim
The taste of expression in an expressionless world
Or the taste of romance to a corset bound girl
When excitement for language was then at it's peak
I'd be writing side by side with people like Coleridge and Keats
Feeling akin to their pantheistic ways, their wanderlust scribbles, made in their opium haze.
When cursive was the norm
And embellishments adorned
Letters wrote in passion and love
So take me back in a whirlwind to a time long gone by
To a time that I crave even if merely to try
My hand at truly creating,
Crafting original thoughts
Then to blissfully die and my works to be taught
The invasive metaphors that puncture the soul
The classic old English, simply makes it too hard to console
My crave for this life
To be a linguistic pioneer
All driven by my anger at this century’s predictable veneer
The walls of this age battered with posts and overused phrases
Causing immense damage to the literary body
Like those, 'totes heckers posts saying 'four twenty blaze it'
I think a thought to express myself
But it gets thrown out due to the difficulty to impress myself
To break from the mold that society has carved of words I'm expected to choose
And the limited expressions that have yet to be used.
Language is dead. And it's now being butchered
Whilst I stand here and watch
As my last dying hope is soon to be lost
It's like the loss of a loved one that makes each labored breath
Stab into my chest
As I pray for my senses
To be lost
In the sweet abyss of some kind of death
My heart aches for the words that do not exist,
For ways to express myself but my creativity resists,
It won't allow me to articulate a disgusting banality
So there dies my creativity a brutal fatality
