Thanks To Carrie

Edgar Allan Poe. 

His full collection.

Nothing edited, 

Nothing forsaken.


The sight of it frightened me

Because I had heard his name,

And how it was spoken with dreadful tone.

It was only fitting, however, 

That sweet sweet Carrie-

The woman who gave it to me-

Was discussed in the same

Dreadful, dreadful tone.


So I slid it into my shelf,

Unwary that I would read it soon-

Very soon.


A night of hail-like tears

Pelting my wooden floors, 

I figured I would read the book,

That my Carrie had implored.


My Carrie was gone, 

The book and a stone

The only thoughts of her,

That remained in my home.


The bells, bells, bells!

How my Heart had swelled!

As I read about the twinkling, 

And the jingling,

Of the wonderful glorious bells!


Nevermore was my joy, for what I had read cleared my head,

and the thought of what I had lost tossed me. 

I closed the book for a moment- 

With these words, through my soul, I sent-

"If it be true that she is no more, 

It can no longer be a truth I ignore,

and if it must be a pain within me, forever sore,

tell me now the truth of her, forevermore."

Quoth my soul, "Nevermore."


Then in the last hour of my childhood,

Amidst the tempest of my life, 

I looked to, and drew

From every alliterated verse-

From every towering stanza-

From every unexpected tragedy-

From every word she said to me-

The truth I was too blind to see.


Poetry has a purpose clear to see.

It forces us to look deep within, without fear, with intellect.

And while what is true to you may not be true to me-

I would not have ever known to ask myself the question, 

And deliver my own answer,

Had it not been for poetry.

This poem is about: 


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