A Real Poet Could Write About Happiness

February 20, 2010
By Anonymous

I don’t know how it’s supposed to go
I need to see frostbitten cherry trees
because lately beauty has been just another word
rearranged to fit the letters that make up your name.
All the muses of the world have crashed and burned,
even now as I type these spindly letters my fingers miss keys
as the technological rhythm erupts to form this awfully hollow melody
–the theme song of this forgotten art which time has already perfected.
The task I want to be given has already been taken
they can’t tell me my life is less sinful.
Of all else, let me be the one who still needs saving
because I’m thirsty and shaking and I even though I can’t breathe I honestly don’t want to.
My admiration for the world has made It beautiful
but what then…
What will I do when the lights begin to dim and I miss the absence of shadow?

The author's comments:
John Keats was the definition of beautiful and i probably shame his art with my nonsense

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!