And so my Father came over, and put his hand on my head. >Don't worry about things like that. I just looked underneath your bed, and there isn't any poet there. And if he does appear, just call for me, and I'll chase him off. I love you more than anything, and I will always be here, to protect you. I looked at my Father, and told him >I love you too, Daddy. He tucked me in, turned on my night-light, and closed the door. And I knew I had to be brave. So I pulled the sheets over my head, and went to sleep. Until I heard a voice, coming from underneath my bed... >Daddy went to sleep? is that right? Daddy won't hear you peep? While you critique, My Open-Mic Poetry Night? I was frozen in my bed, underneath my sheets. >Daddy said Poets aren't real, they just exist in your mind, and they go away if you ignore them A long, slim, arm rose up from the bottom of my bed, and offered me a quill. The sleeve ended in ruffles, like something a pirate or faggot would wear. >Child, write a single rhyme. Make it simple, and write it in time. And once you do it, if Poets are not real, I will make it my prerogative, to disappear. So I took the quill, and I wrote, And as I scribbled, I also Spoke, >Poetry is Dead Poetry can't be written, Poetry can only be Said, Poetry is softer than a newborn a kitten, There is no Poet underneath my Bed. And he won't speak the Truth, Because he is only in my Head! And so the poet did disappear.