I’m sure that sometime during your day, as you check your social media profiles, get lost in the internet world, and contemplate what to watch next on Netflix, you have heard what is going on.
No. Not that the world is ending, and this virus will soon spread to every corner of the world and kill us all.
Although, yes, that is happening too.
Don’t worry if life comes to that, because if playing a mobile game about spreading a disease around the world has taught me anything, it's that somehow Madagascar will not become infected.
We will live on.
We will survive.
It feels like at that point we should just give up though.
Being the last humans on Earth who live in Madagascar, and not having any humans on Earth is a marginal difference.
I guess it would be okay if I say that now is the time for us to move it, move it?
Yeah. I quit the game then too.
Oh, and it is National Poetry Month.
In case you care.
In case you were wondering as you scroll through Twitter and Facebook.
Don’t worry, I won’t hate you if you are disinterested in the month.
Heck, I’m a poet and I find it hard to stomach a month of poetry.
National Poetry Month is the kind of thing you’d expect this blog to celebrate.
We can give you a new poem every single day.
Post something on social media about the month being so cool.
Because that is what people want… poetry.
More organized sentences with too many emotions that are supposed to impress the reader.
This month in literature is a great example of how out of it writers are, how consumed they are with their own words, and how much empathy they lack towards their own readers.
Nobody but writers care about National Poetry Month.
Sorry, but it’s true.
I wish readers were excited for poetry.
That I could go up to a co-worker or friend and say that it is that time of the year. The time of poetry.
I am going to explain all the technical jargon for them too.
What alliteration is.
How being ambiguous can help a story.
And how I‘ll write about them using an apostrophe.
But I can’t.
I’d get a blank look from them as if I said something wrong.
Like that person who I told about the month is thinking, “Does this idiot actually expect me to care? I don't like poetry. And I am not reading his.”
Who thought it was a good idea to give poetry a whole damn month?
A whole month of poetry?
As in 30 days? Of poetry?
We are talking about poetry right?
I didn’t get this confused with another, much cooler genre of literature.
Poetry deserves like a week.
And by the end of the third day, you are already tired of it because you realize all poems are either about love or depression.
And there is only so much of that anyone can take.
Poetry is the piano of literature.
It is so boring that you wonder why you aren’t listening to something else.
Either something without the piano, or something where the piano is not heard.
After you are done reading it you wonder why you didn’t read something else.
You can’t say you felt forced to read poetry.
You can’t say it was peer pressure.
You can’t blame others for reading that poem.
You made that choice.
All because poetry gave itself a month.
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About The Blogger
Greg Luti is an editor and blogger on pensandwords.com. His favorite writers are Robert Frost and Charles Bukowski. He enjoys reading up on history, watching comedies, and playing video games, when he is not writing down a few notes for his next piece. He started this blog out of his love for literature and hopes that the reader shares that same passion.
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