Make Me Start A Revolution

It's too hard to be heard when no one's listening.

Every time

Poetry

Is mentioned,

The secret snickers from all the

Emotionless followers

Blanket the room

And heads turn away,

To more profitable

Propaganda.

No,

That’s not fair.

We can’t be bitter

Because they expected more
From us.

The poets-

Professional and amateur

Who can’t stop themselves

From catching a line or two

As they sit at the bus stop

Or nod off during lecture class-

Were supposed to create the revolution

Which would inspire the youth

To rise up and take control

Under the name of creativity

And it’s many-colored flag.

We

Were supposed to be the voices of tomorrow.

The revolutionaries who could say

All the things that needed to be said

And who could say them

With the words of the devil

And voice of angels.

We were supposed to speak a language

Which would rally the whole world.

It’s not fair to be bitter

That all we ever turned out

Were words trapped between the covers of a binder

Sketched out hurriedly

And then never looked over again.

It’s our own fault

That the only poets with any interest in voice

Are the same poets with interest in profit

And the rest of us

Are too scared to even try

To beat the system
And make our poems known.

It’s our own fault

We lost interest

In this fading world.

Our own fault

That we have nothing left to say

For how the world could change.

Our fault

We gave up hope

On finding any change at all.

Now everything we write

Is the same as what was written

And it’s being beaten,

Ground

Into the hearts

Of the troubled romantics

Who only want to relieve the tensions

Of today.

We created the snickering

And the turned heads on purpose.

We haven’t been in practice

Of writing for an audience

For a long time now,

And any audience who won’t listen

Is better than the one

Who doesn’t care.

Audience to a poet,

Has become the words that sell,

Silly things in simple text

That infuriate the peers

Who want poetry to be as beautiful as it always was,

And excites the critics

Who can say they told us so

Over and over again.

We didn’t say we’d change the world

When we put the purpose to the page.

But we implied it.

We promised

That we’d come up with the solution,

But we didn’t,

And they aren’t waiting anymore.

It’s not like poetry’s a sham.

It’s not the way we were meant to be.

Any poem is as worthy

As a novel

Of finding its fortune.

But we’re only writing for ourselves now.

No one else

Buys poetry.

No one else

Read the words,

Because if they do mean more

Why should they have to search?

Why not wait

For someone to tell them

Directly.

Why shouldn’t everyone wait

For the comedy relief,

For the serious plots,

For the sexy subtexts

That escape the glance

When written in the form of flowers

And birds in the wind

When they come instantly

In picture.

They’ve stopped waiting for us

To change the world.

Well,

We weren’t going

To change anything.

The world is full, now,

Of thoughts.

It’s full of people

And opinions

And rights

And full of wrongs.

The place for poetry

Is shelved

Along with religious writings

And classic texts

And comic books.

Contemporary

Never made it to the holy land

Where we were supposed to be
Like kings.

Modern
Never became the verses

That sung the world

To sleep.

We are never going

To change the world,

We’ll never be

Your revolutionaries,

But I could change your mind

If you would read
My poem

Again.

Make Me

Start a revolution.

Let’s prove that

Maybe you

Were waiting for our voices

All along.

Now turn back,

Read again.