Does anyone even read poetry anymore?

[I used to love reading and writing poetry but haven’t done either in a long time.
Funny how comfortable I’ve become with hiding my passions, huh ?
Anyway whilst we’ve been in lockdown I’ve ironically had a bad case of writers block, but armed with an abundance of time and inspired by the spirit of Easter, there’s no better time than now to resurrect lost loves.
(not including exes, don’t text him back sis).
So enjoy and be kind, its been a while.
Ps. the punctuation or lack thereof is very intentional]

 

Does anyone even read poetry anymore?

 

The thought swirls in my mind
it’s been long,
too long since I’ve allowed a worded rhythm to be unloaded, unburdened, set free.

Do I even remember how ?
Am I still able?
Does a talent unused dry up?
Like a plant, unwatered, un-photosynthesised.

What a concept to consider
an unwatered seed
an unwatered … dream
a forgotten seed ?

Should said seed be rediscovered
waiting patiently burrowed deep in the soil
can it hope for a second chance ?
Can it cling to a vision of budding leaves sprouting open, as they glide and dance to the caresses of the sun

But.
the leaves bud
and the plant blooms
the sun enamours
indeed they dance,
How will we know …
If no one is watching?

Is a talent unwatered worse than a life unseen?


pen is put to paper
the ink forms the words
they dance and glide so beautifully across the page
But how can it matter

when nobody reads poetry anymore .

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