Ink on Paper

I heard a poet once say:
"I wonder why we listen to poets
When nobody gives a fuck"

It's a good question, is it not?

Poets fill their pages with words
Words that invoke beautiful images
Of life
Of death
Of the world we live in,
And open our eyes
So we can see ourselves for who we really are

But they are just words.
Ink on paper - nothing more.

T.S. Eliot told us our world was a wasteland
We agreed
And then went on trashing it
John Lennon told us that all we needed was love
We smiled
And then shot him in the head

What's the point?

Poets write the truth
We sort through lies and illusions
And put what's real down on paper,
Dress it up with imagery, metaphors, and rhythm
And present it for all to see

There's no question that this process
Of translating this vision into words
Is beautiful, even divine.

But a poem never changed anything.
It never saved the world or the souls of men.
It can't save someone from dying
Or feed a starving child.
It can't stop us from destroying each other
Our world
And ourselves

A poem is just ink on paper.

Nothing more.