Just Poetry

 

I want to bring back the dead,

heal the sick,

stop those I love from dying.

Make a fist

and take all their pain away,

all the hurt,

and all the hate,

with everything I create,

but it’s just poetry.

 

I want to stop the wars,

feed the hungry

and open every prison door.

Every morning,

lift the wounded from the floor,

settle every score.

All of this and more,

but it’s just poetry.

 

If the world would heed my call,

but they’re just scribblings

on a gas station bathroom stall.

I’m not forgiving me,

or anyone at all

for not going to the wall

to make this would a better place,

and not a wasted, toxic ball.

But in the end,

I’m forced to recall

it’s all just poetry.

 

Won’t change the Sun’s rising,

or the way the wind blows.

Won’t save the world,

or how each person’s day goes.

Won’t heal the sick

or summon all the angels,

but when they’re read

each word carries its payload.

Might give a little hope,

not a promise, not a rainbow.

No, it’s just poetry.

 

Just because it won’t grant wishes,

doesn’t mean I’ll stop.

Each time they’re read

they get to do their job.

And doing something,

even this,

is so much better than not.

Every step up the mountain

leads to the top.

This is it,

my little bit,

and I promise I won’t quit.

Even if all it is

is just poetry.

 

 

DJR – 2022