What..To..Write..

The world needs more poetry, more stories
More people eager to break free from the captivity of illiteracy
More souls to recite rhymes
More wise ones to tell the tale of past times
She needs more writers

But what happens when every tale has been told
And the moral behind them, no longer left to unfold
When everything has been written about
In the past, present and future tense
The good the, bad, the ‘I’m having a hard time figuring this out’

The world needs more fiction
A new generation of geniuses to retell old stories with newfangled diction
So what then happens to our poets
What tales do they tell
What tales shall I tell?

Shall I tell a tale about Christianity
A way of life rather that a rule we follow blindly
The level of disbelieve
Doubts raised by the theories our scientists conceive
Not at all. It’ll only be another story about people being dragged to hell

Shall I tell a tale about love
The one thing that no other emotion is placed above
About the affection I yearn to ascertain
Or the people I happened to care for in vain
Not at all. It’ll only be another story about the girl who believed in fairytales

Shall I tell a tale about nature
The trees and how their wood is used for furniture
The manner in which the river flows
Furry mammals and how they learn to make their individual burrows
Not at all. It’ll only be another story about that homeless nature loving girl

Shall I tell a tale about depression
The one feeling that’s closer to me than any other relation
The burden that it brings when darkness clouds your mind
Those demons that dine with you when you’re too weak to cast and bind
Not at all. It’ll only be another story about that selfish, suicidal child who thought they had it worst than anyone else

Shall I tell a tale about hope
And peace and happiness and love
There’s still gratitude and inspiration and serenity
And every other emotion I’ve ever heard of
Not at all. It’ll only be another tale about a young child who was only known for his stupidity

Or shall I tell a tale about me
My downfalls and short comings, Hopes and dreams
About me and him and what I hoped that we could be
About every scar on my body,
Dent in my soul
Relationships I kept, ever so rocky
My hurt and how no one ever bothered to console

But I’m no different
And my observations lie far from distinct
Because somehow the minds of every poet happens to be linked
No new words
No new experiences
No new expressions
Even our titles are being recycled

So now I urge the audience to let me know
If the heavens need more stories
And the earth, more poetry
What exactly shall I write about?

Love,
A
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