Ink hasn’t scratched paper
For poetry, at least
In the last few decades
Nothing for us to feast
So, what have we done?
Have we made any progress?
Is there food for the needy?
Are there sane people in congress?
Is there no pollution?
Is there no crime?
Does world peace have solution?
But, do we have spare time?
Do we get to see our families?
Do we get to sleep a lot?
Are we mutated calamities?
Is Shakespeare still being taught?
Are kids even learning?
Do we have enough care?
My thoughts, are in me, churning
My heart and soul are burning
My heart can spill on pages
But that is not the same
As giving a letter to your friend
You didn’t write for fame
Pens are the greatest tool
Man has ever created
With it, we love, we care
The rest, that’s debated
Emotion hasn’t scratched
Anything, at all
For the last few centuries
It’s the reason for our fall.