Word Up

 
The poet wrote several books of poems
But instead of publishing he buried them in a field
He was too shy to share the words
He thought his verses would never have much appeal
 
When the season changed the rains came
Making the pastures greener than ever before
And in the places of those buried books
Something began to sprout from the grassy floor
 
Some flowers began to emerge suddenly
Shrubs, bushes, thickets, all kinds of vegetation
It was myriad of colors, sizes, and shapes
As if the buried texts gave the flora some dictation
 
Overnight something magical happened
One of these grew into a very particularly gigantic tree
Then some noticed that the trunk and leaves
Had markings and writings resembling something of poetry
 
Before you know it the field was filled with poets
With scientists and religious men trying to decipher each verse
The fruit tasted sweeter and the lines had perfect meter
And even some scholars said it was the best thing in the universe
 
Some who consumed the fruit found talent
Able to recite rhymes and lines like they were heaven sent
Others dropped bars like they were neutron stars
Heavy, dense, and intense even massive to a greater extent
 
There were aspiring writers, authors, lyricists  
Many came from near and far from all around the world
Looking for inspiration in this field of poetry
Old and young, men and women, boys and even little girls
 
Some started smoking the wildflowers and weeds  
Designing stanzas and concepts showing superior skills
Others got high with the fantasies and dreams
While some went mad from the rageful and angered spills
 
Wanna feel nice? Eat some berries from shrubs
Wanna get high? Smoke a dub from the thickest thickets and groves
Wanna be better? Sniff the flowers and you’ll have powers  
But now they’re starting to sell tickets and they’re coming in droves
 
One day the poet was watching the news on the telly
He was astounded when he heard others spitting the illest rhymes
He remembered the works he had buried there
And the magic that nature and poetry can create sometimes
 
That same night the poet went back to the field
And under the cover of darkness he unearthed all of his books
He took them back home and kept under his bed
To dream many a night of great lines and spectacular hooks
 
The next morning all the trees and shrubs withered
Everything dried out and the masses didn’t know how or why
The inspiration seemed to have come and gone
But the poet secretly dreams of excellent verses every night

Word up