Some Poem About Imagination

I sit in the dark, without a light,

Hearing my brother’s annoying math,

Trying to think, trying to write,

But wandering down a different path.

Distracted by the chirps of a bird,

Not a single idea comes to mind,

Unless you count the insanely absurd

Wandering outside imagination’s tight bind.

Imaginations been shut, tied up,

He is no use to poor old me,

Who’s hearing the alarm of wake-up,

Blaring unstopped and free.

Barbie movies I hear from afar,

Just as distracting as math!

Races by does a car,

I hear someone taking a bath.

“All too distracting,” says Inspiration

Running away from poor me,

“Sorry, can’t open,” says Imagination,

“For my information isn’t free.”

In despair I wander, seeking,

But it just gets farther away—

Imagination’s closed, no peeking,

Then I knew what to say.

“Imagination! What does it cost?”

I ask, hoping to find.

“Ye don’t have it, it’s been lost!”
He said from behind the bind.

“Then what is it?” I cry back,

“It’s Originality,” he says sadly.

“Is it Originality the world does lack?”

“Yes! They’re doing very badly.”

“No one uses Imagination anymore,

So I just shut locked myself!

The world’s just full of muck and gore.”

“But sir, I know a writer Elf!”

“The world’s not so bad,” says I,

“There’s still happiness and light!

Sometimes there’s a sin or a lie,

But there’s joy, which is bright!”

“That writer Elf I know—

Realize that some writers have it—

Though maybe at first it’s low,

But originality’s still strongly lit.”

“I’ll give you this book,

By a certain WTB—

Don’t give me that look,

Just wait and see!”

Imagination, a little unsure,

Took the book and read it.

And loved it greatly as it were—

O, Originality was still lit!

Excited, he tore those dreadful binds off,

Making all his information free,

Though many today still scoff,

They’re skepticism won’t affect me.

A little mediocre... but its what I came up with on spur of the moment as I wrote in my novel.