A Poet's Lament

What disturbs me, poet, is the creeping silence,

The stifled voice, the lost defiance.

The verse once sung, now hushed and still,

A fading echo, a haunting thrill.

It irks me, friend, to see the muse decline,

Her wings clipped short, her spirit confined.

The rhythmic dance, once wild and free,

Now bound by rules, a dreary decree.

We're shackled, poet, by the weight of form,

The rigid rhyme, the meter's storm.

Our words, once wild, now tamed and meek,

A prisoner's plea, a captive's shriek.

I yearn to break the chains, to soar and fly,

To paint the sky with words that defy.

To sing the soul, the heart laid bare,

A raw emotion, a truth to share.

But fear holds fast, the critic's sneer,

The judgmental eye, the doubt, the fear.

We're haunted by the past, the greats of yore,

Their shadows loom, forevermore.

The blank page stares, a daunting sight,

A challenge to the soul, a test of might.

The pen, a weapon, sharp and keen,

Yet trembles in our hand, unseen.

We seek inspiration, a spark divine,

A muse to guide, a heavenly sign.

But often, silence fills the air,

A barren wasteland, a bleak despair.

The world outside, a cacophony,

A senseless noise, a monotony.

We long for peace, a quiet place,

To find our voice, to find our grace.

So let us rise, my fellow scribes,

Defy the odds, defy the lies.

Let's break the mold, and forge our way,

A new dawn breaks, a brighter day.

Let's write with passion, with heart and soul,

Ignore the critics, seize control.

Our words, our weapons, let them fly,

A poet's dream, a soaring sky.