Poetry Ain’t Dead

Somebody told me poetry is a dying art.

I said—my art ain’t dead.

I pulled out my manuscript,

stacked it beside the pile of books

that live near my bed—

Nayyirah Waheed, Audre Lorde,

Amiri Baraka, Jasmine Mans.

I had them speak their words,

feel their weight in the mouth,

their fire on the tongue.

We talked about sheep,

how the world moves in herds,

infected by obedience,

lulled to sleep by the noise of the machine.

But I see monks in the streets,

facing riot shields with open palm against police.

Aren’t they supposed to be the protectors of peace?

Yet the ones in uniform

wage war on the ones in robes.

It feels like light versus dark.

It feels like the rise of the creatives.

It feels like rebellion in the marrow,

rewiring the cage we were taught to call freedom.

Poetry is not dead.

It’s the living that are—

sleepwalking through screens,

souls buried before the body.

Poetry ain’t dying.

It’s the breath that keeps us alive.