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Poetry is Dying
I am old.
I don’t have anyone’s attention.
I am staring at the void,
I wait for it to jump at me.
I was left here to be forgotten,
Slowly dying, day by day.
I am almost gone.
I am old.
I’m as old as George Washington is young.
They all have moved to songs.
They never used to.
Everyone went to me.
I would give them answers,
To questions unseen.
Now, I am barely taught,
Just left for the void to take me.
Everyone despises me.
Even hate the sight of me.
They shove me aside like an alcoholic to his life.
Maybe it’s best to just let me die.

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This piece is about how old poetry is and how it's dying.