The day poetry died,
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I was ridin' high on cloud nine;
with four other feathers.
It seemed forever to complete endeavors
that equaled pit falls and failures.
My vision became better,
after long meetings and letters;
but the flow never mixed.
So I sat at the crib vixed and vexed,
cursed and hexed, because my dreams and bets
had fallen short.
So now I stand in my solitude
under silhouettes and shadows,
so low like criminals; so rude...
Never wanted to be that dude of destruction
cold cappin' and bustin',
but the whole journey
jacked me of somethin'.
I was robbed.
Robbed of righteous feelings and
I used to think of peaceful waves
and cool crisp oceans.
But ever since I dived in
I've experienced sin and evil feelings.
So to relieve my chest I exhale and rest,
grab my pen and begin again:
I am not a poet, I am not a
deep thinking, cafe reading, mic holding, notebook toting
token of the American dream.
I don't see things in metaphors
and twelve foot deep phrases;
those self-righteous griots of present days will take you there.
But I don't care. Because poetry died;
my dream lied, and I became trapped in reality.
So much of a tragedy, I want to put it behind me--
no more a casualty, because I shall write no longer.
Every day I shall grow stronger against the stares and glares,
jeers, cheers, and slanted eyes.
Leaving the pen and pad behind, I shall climb
without my old friend, poetry
Clarence B. Barbee