Poetry.

Poetry?
What a delightful little hobby.
Perfectly passable
For a purposeless pastime
On rainy days.

Surely it is splendid;
The graceful dips and swooping curves
The sweet sopranos of the high-rising T's
And velvet baritone of the j's and the g's
Which, curving, cascade downward like clefs
Treble clefs
And my pencil the conductor
Directing the different tones
Creating, combining, constantly
Forming, reforming, countless measures
Which flow together
And effortlessly dissolve into
A melody.
The letters
An orchestra.

Utterly useless.

Because when did
Poetry
Ever alter the way that someone
Thought about something
Complex, or seemingly simple?
Please, put down your pencil
Push your papers aside
And do something to change
the world.

But I can't, for I,
I have a dream.
I have a dream that one day
Someone will use
Words
Carefully chosen, elegantly strung together
Almost like
Poetry
To gather masses that rally for change
And to bring the divided
Together in unity.
Would such things not
Change the world?

But certainly it has never been done.

For say, can you see
That
Poetry
Is never akin to greatness.
Oh, wherefore art thou
Wasting time
On a thing that cannot be appreciated
by others
Anyway?

Poetry.

Yes, surely it is splendid
For such a pointless

powerless
pathetic practice.