You say the passion is dead...

But why is it that my heart is alive with every essence and vibe of the art me and you have each chosen, but only one of us thrives and grows in? Why must I put my every emotion to lyric, and sometimes even pull off making other people feel it cuz there’s nothing of greater purity than pouring one’s heart out where others can see? How come the idea alone of two or more poets getting together and bouncing ideas off of each other or just sharing their brilliance unsevered make even my heart slam?

You say the passion is dead...

But tell me when was the funeral, I guess in my obsess with artistic word I never got the memo and haven’t heard, just like every other poet I’ve known, all in their own little dome, all in a room of their home writing about everything that passes through their heart long enough to make a sound, and they’ve found that even a verse about the roach on the floor can help them open the door to the part of their own creativity that they didn’t even know they’d never explored.

You say the passion is dead...

But why are people all up in its kitchen with talent newfound and unbound, doing more than just bitchin about their blackwhitepuertoricanchinesegaylesbianjewishcatholicwrist-cutting-parent-hating-broken-heart-nursing-anti-war-preaching... Identity problems? How come nothing on Earth could stop the true poets from saying what needs to be said, originality filled with personality from their hearts and their heads, telling us the stories of the lives that they’ve led, whether tears they have shed or laughs they have had, all the while entertaining, and no, not with random shouts, but every pause, sigh, laugh, or pout, every gesture, every motion, not an act, just their emotion, cuz it’s how they get across to you the message they have brought to you?

You say the passion is dead...

But why are kids across the nation getting artistic and deep instead of inarticulate and half-asleep from more drugs than a raver with a two-way-pager? Why do we turn to the expression to treat our depression and feelings of defeat and unrest... That most of us will tell you plain that only poetry can explain? Why do we feel it... Why do we feel it... Why do we feel it in here, the emotional avalanche that tumbles onto our heads with every word from our hearts that’s bled...

While you tell us it’s dead??

I’m sorry... I must not have correctly heard what you said.