Where are we
The wordsmiths and storytellers
The pundits and jesters
Don’t let your words die
Rotten and fester
Why are we silent
Why are there days upon days
With nothing to say
Why don’t we play the way we played
Back in the day
I know I’ve been away
…know I’ve been lax in my responsibility
To show
To act
To share these things I hold inside
Like…the thing that made me laugh
Or…the hell of when I cried
Where are we
Who built a mountain
From sandy mole hills
Who shouted aloud
The strength of our will
Where are we
Where are our voices
…our words…our roar
That strengthen the weak
Let caged hearts soar
Have we fallen away
Under cover of night
Sulking in the shadows
Afraid of the light
Have we lost our rhythm
…our desire for written words
Scurrying in the darkness
No sounds to be heard
Where are we
The poet. The artist.
Of Destee’s Playground
Are we locked behind desks
Not making a sound
Were we robbed of the mojo
That make others move
Writer’s block came knocking
Took us out of our groove
Where are we?
Poets?