I love Poetry.
How you can rhyme on time. Or –not-rhyme- on the ---rhythm.
You can say what you envision and not be dishonored because we are all entitled to our own opinions.
How you can A-B-A-B-C-C-D-C, or A-B-A-B-A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-

I love how I can take one word and twist it back to lash on your skin,
All the while being adored because having vocabulary is the new in.

I appreciate how poetry can have 40 different meanings,
But my teacher tells me only the meaning she believes in.
I wonder why she doesn’t page through the hundreds of poems sitting on her desk,
And pick up the one written way better than the rest.

Sparking new ideas off of old wood and creating a fireplace where no fire once stood.
Poetry lets you make new meanings for lost words.
Words lost in translation on crumbled up pages in the waste bin.

Some say I get too deep, a suicidal neat freak.
Placing clues in blood spots on carpeted floors of my stories
where the victim is always the suspect.

Poetry taught me how to not neglect my feelings,
But to transcribe them to paper yet it feels like
I’m writing in hieroglyphics because no gets it.

But Poetry is a fuel to the fire and anger.
A piece of my peace and serenity entangled,
And although I can’t separate the fire from water.

Poetry is… Poetry.