What is poetry? A simple concoction of sounds,words repeated by millions before, a candle lit it times of darkness. A painful reminder of the past, and the happy delight in this hell we call life. Poetry is the bliss of cutting one's wrists with a knife in the middle of the night and the sun rising as if to say "Congratulations, you're alive!" It is the dance people do when they're happy, and the song they listen to when they're not. It's the endless circles we get caught in, the hoops we jump through and the time we take to feel beautiful, only to have the feeling smashed by the one dear to our heart who doesn't care to notice our presence, much less who we are on the day we need it the most because you realize you'll never escape the claws of the monster called your thoughts, you'll always be trapped in the jaws of depression that hold you gently enough so that you don't break but instead spend every waking moment craving the sweet kiss of Death, wanting it all to end but fearing the life you COULD live if only you get out and breathe the fresh air around you and feel the sun's warmth instead of staring painfully after others who run free without you, without receiving insults about their weight or how much they ate or questions about their poetry and scars; "You are who you are," they say, "embrace it." But there's nothing left to embrace-all you can do is chase what little is left and hope not to drive it away forever to be fed to the next lost soul who suffers alone, devouring whatever they can get their hands on to feel better about themselves without realizing that they tear people down to drown in the lake of despair and solitude; being alone is the worst thing that could happen to someone who doubts themselves and doesn't know what is expected of them, and lash out in desperation, desperate to feel nothing anymore but are greeted with only pain and disappointment while anointed with the smell of death present under only their noses which rots and festers in one's mind, leaving all happiness behind as it forces itself into the mind of the victim slowly driving it insane while everyone watches but does not see the rain falling around the corpse that walks and smiles and talks and plays pretend with family and friends, who breaks down crying every night and dying and wanting it all to go away, finally being blessed with a few hours of sleep before thrashing awake eluded by nightmares and memories, when the blade comes out whispering comforting words, crying with you and making everything better because you then have a friend, even though the world sleeps around you unaware of your current state and self hate that you feel because of your weakness and mistakes and everything would be just great if you didn't exist. Is that what life is? A series of small bad things leading to worse things that become better and then fall apart, destined to repeat over and over and over again? Is it to prepare us mentally for the mazes and phases that will kill us even though we are already dead and maybe even gladly so, as true this is sad it's a fact among millions on this earth and in this universe who were too weak to pass initiation in which they are nursed and cared for in limbo by nothing, floating, dreaming, void of all thoughts for all eternity, nonexistent in any dimension of time and space, never again hoping to live or die because they are just gone. The world is cruel and filled with uncertainty of what's next and the side effects of not knowing create an anxiety which is like no other, curiosity drives us to experiment near death encounters and sometimes Death wins, and everyone around them loses. Life has a beginning, middle, and end but some don't even begin to live before casting everything aside to die, singing poetry from their lungs as they try to move on but only succeed in a permanent recess. ~