I asked the man where the poetry books were kept, he showed me to a section where twenty books stood. There, he said, we don’t have many and oh was he right. The colour from each spine had been drained, dust collected upon each page and it was around about then, that I knew it was too late.
Poetry has well and truly become a dying art and yes, it is dying fast. When I first told my father I wanted to be a poet he laughed: poetry, my dear, does not supply you with money and with that, he turned, the statement thrown out of his mind but still left, torturing within mine.
It was only when I visited that bookshop and saw for myself what my heart had begged me to ignore; poems were dead, poetry was merely a memory people wished to forget.
But still, I can’t let it go. I was born with this need to write. I found verses and prose more than I ever found friends. The art of poetry became something I could depend on, my own lover on a cold Friday night, the man who would never let me down with sour excuses.
These words I now write have become, not only a necessity but my life.