Ars Poetica

January 14, 2009
By Sydney Friday, Millersville, PA

My words drip across my paper.
My punctuations slither their way in.
Emotions pour onto this paper.
This is what I call poetry.

My writing takes me to a place I call home.
My pen is my prized procession.
I cry, I smile, I get frustrated over the words I write.
This is what I call poetry.

My mind is elsewhere as I write this piece,
My hand shakes like rocks in a earthquake.
I find writing a way of relief,
This is what I call poetry.

My emotions I share bring back the feelings from the past.
My depression falls deeper as I write about the pain.
The pass has overtaken me; but I can't stop writing,
This is what I call poetry.



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