I used to hate poetry. No, not hate. Hate is too weak of a word; I prefer loathe. The word loathe is more serpentine as it slithers its way past one’s lips, twisting and turning as it glides up their throat, through their vocal chords.

I am not sure why I loathed poetry as I did. Maybe it was because I felt as if poetry gave a deep glimpse into the soul of the writer, almost as if there was a gaping hole in their chest and you were just nonchalantly peering inside.

Or maybe it was because I always associated poetry with the one-two-rap-tap-left-right marching rhyme scheme.

But maybe this could come in handy. I could write songs for marching bands, or for armies to sing as they march into Hell.

Or I could write a poem about a snake, describing how its scales slide against one another as it moves.

Or maybe I could just stick to imagery. I love imagery.

The small dog can’t just be small. He’s a russet brown schnauzer with deep eyes that light up when he sees anybody. His tongue is a pale pink and he shoves it out to loll between his teeth when he gets excited. He sits on the porch of a 2-story house every day, waiting for his owner to come home, and when she walks up the driveway the little dog comes bounding over, pouncing on her legs happily.

Imagery is much more fun than poetry. Because poetry is written blunt, and boring. Right?