Poetry seems to be evolving from what I've seen. I write poetry and I collaborate a lot with my friends on pieces. I don't think it's dead, but the interest in it is waning a little.
[QUOTE="adam0926"]isn't rap poetry if so then yeah makaveli2344
Correction, Rap WAS poetry. Now its something we here on Earth call BULLS**T
[Dose One Lyrics] i am the wizard...the...hush...awkward hawk-eyed wizard... who's melancholy state of stubborn shows him the hard place up close and conjures a lucid quandary... the dreamiest paranoia.... where's the rock...the rock...i want to fix the rock.. talk it into being my pal... better yet my indolent solid stood apprentice... but thanks, but no thanks...but...there is no rock... just me...and my gloomy hand-carved hard place... no student...no new chew toy for my bootleg hug and kiss to tear in to ribbons... worst of all...all my fuss and careful obsessing...frivolous... it gets painted over with lacking and stuffed...grotesque with missing... now fruitless... i set meticulously sharpened traps...for bugs with ferocious little mechanised insect crippling jaws... and throw away my junior wizard cap and wand... these pupils will be dinner and hopefully cephlopods... now i can smile at the cut out moon and pretend...hardcore... it's comical and made of cardboard... in a while i scamper in its film about my quarters collecting all the intricate sprung death bundles and free the teeny-weeny thinga-magiggers... dropping them in their bruised seeping abdomens into a jar... one by...one... a cloudy glass jar of sour miracles... it's eliptical, and made of guts...resonance collected... i tip-toe through wild guesses and wide eyes... dipping...i hope it's cute...dipping my hairy knuckles and minced cuticles... into the open jar...seconds later...later...aletrlatetr a firm pinch invigorates the dying tensed writhing critter...wriggle wriggle... i would like to look down its throat... but it only snaps and hisses at my innocent cruelty... bad beasty bad... so be it...it's rectangular and made of ash... i lean back into the dim bizarre of my work space... my neat and straightened work space... to...to...seem just...to seem...to... as i suck its thickened pearly stomachs from a throbbing in caving thorax... i just can't seem to...study taught in this poor reader's paradise and these uncomfortably queer sandals. a sign...lost appetite...i lean...a sign...leaning further...a yawn... leaning further back crack a pointless pencil in my only pocket with no holes snaps in two and pokes my skinny leg... kinda...kinda reminds me of lightning... i don't believe in zeus but i'm scared stiff of clowns.... look i'm naked...a wizard...and surely mad. i don't believe in zeus but i'm scared stiff of clowns.... look i'm naked...a wizard...and surley mad. i don't believe in zeus but i'm scared stiff of clowns... look i'm naked...a wizard...and nearly happy. it's circular and made of seasons... pretty...ugly...pretty...ugly...pretty...pacing from desk to sill... i turn my mirrors off and on and on and off and then make believe the wolves are telling me it's midnight... except it's just the last few hours howling night...night... i know my desk hates me...so do the traps, jars, nervous ticks and loudmouthed pointless pencils... it's okay...all right...because...'cause i'm gonna write and write and marry all its cracks, chips and knots, get them really pregnant then leave with its friend the chair and all my stationary... yum...a breeze...carry me... i feel like...the other son the riddles blend in with the stars in with the crickets stuck in the middle of somewhere... chirping madly...i'll be happier alone... naked where no one can ever find the crickets...
If your talking about written poetry that people read out, then yeah that's dead a bit. But if your talking about music then no cause music has been around for ages and never died.
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