The first line of this poem was generated with The Poem Line Generator, found here.



Before the day of words, the poets sleep.

They spent the whole day working their keep.

But now they lay down with the sun,

remembering all that had begun;

since before they were born and after they will die.

There is nothing they won’t stop to try.

They gather their dreams all in a small pool,

hoping to find some poetic tool.

They take their time in finding their words,

for they all just want to be heard.

Some don’t rhyme, and that’s okay,

because they will still have a place to stay

if they put their heart and soul

into their work that they control.

So this night is solemn, quiet, and silent

even if the poet’s nightmares turn violent.

There’s a bag by every bed

containing papers and pens,

so in case they have an epiphany while they rest

they don’t even have to get dressed.

Sometimes the words come faster to other poets,

but it’s about their memories, not their talent, and they know it.

All poets are created equal, yes, but they do not like to think so

because each and every one of them likes to have their own show.

Some are more lyrical while others are epic,

some are calm and relaxing while others are hectic.

But no matter what they mean, poetry is poetry to me,

a place to express oneself and be free.

So as the night sinks to an end and the day of words begins,

just sit back and watch to see who– or what– tries to purge their sins

through the breathtaking art on paper, the true to life honesty

that is poetry.