There was once a beautiful poem,
Which formulated in my mind.
Its words were eloquent and flowing,
Its origin divine.

This beautiful poem danced with glee
Bouncing from neuron to neuron,
It leapt and played up in my brain,
But found no place to lie on.

It began a game of hide and seek,
Peeking out from behind thoughts
Of friends, good food, and video games,
But find it I did not.


Behind the thoughts I had no time,
For poems and all their dancing,
I had much better things to do,
And ladies for romancing.
I took the poem and shoved it away,
And it flew into a dark abyss,
A deep dark world full of chaos and pain,
Where only uncreativity exists.

The walls dripped ominously
With a black viscous slime,
The floor cold obsidian,
The absence of rhyme.



From out of big mountain tops
Flames shot into the air,
The poems looked into the sky,
But no stars were hanging there.

The poem travelled bravely on,
But noticed something terribly wrong,
His cohesiveness had slipped away,
And the rhyme scheme was suddenly thrown astray.



The syllables were out of whack,
He didn’t know how to react,
A poem whose identity,
Was so viciously compromised.

By travelling to this land of dark,
Where Noah never built the Ark,
Michelangelo never painted the chapel,
And Snow White never bit her apple.

The poem felt a sudden pain,
And doubled over as black rain
Fell on him from above
And melted him away.

Suddenly acrostic,
He knew not what to do.
Everyone would make fun of him.
Everyone would say he wasn’t even poetry at all.
Perhaps if he found anyone besides himself...


The poem coagulated back from the goo,
But his spirit was cut in two.

He was worn of this world of darkness,
His existence now worthless.

A couplet has no meaning,
In a world without creativity.

Perhaps he would try harder,
Become freeform like jazz,
And be free to fly from this place.
He could have as many parts as he wished,
The lack of rhyming no longer mattered,
And he would never have to try and fit into a mold again.
But this system wouldn’t work,
Because even free form poetry doesn’t exist
In the darkness of uncreativity.

The poem laid down and cried.
I hadn’t wanted him,
And therefore he was sentenced to die.
Creativity ignored is creativity lost,
In a world of uncreation.
The darkness there is infinite,
And crushes the very soul.
You wouldn’t want to go there,
Pray God you never will.
The world without creativity,
Would be one without purpose of life.
If we look deeper inside our mind,
And let our ideas become free,
Imagine what a better world would be left
By you and me.