The problem with poetry
Is that it makes you bare.
It strips you of your essence,
And leaves your nerves raw.
Like a hatchling,
You’re suddenly surrounded by a new light,
A lens through which you view this world and beyond.

The problem with poetry
Is that you’re often found out.
You express what you feel so beautifully,
It’s hard not to understand.
Your exuberance shows,
Right past the now-translucent fibers of your being.
It has a consequence, that poetry, and it is truth.

The problem with poetry
is that it makes us completely re-analyze every detail of life,
Sometimes leaving us more than a little shocked.
The way our alphabet becomes intertwined with meaning
The grandiose display of affection,
The melancholic array of depression,
Even the beauty of a simple ballad-

The problem with poetry
Is not that it is inherently dangerous
It is not that it can shape the world,
Or the way we think.
It is not how it warps tongues,
And suddenly takes the stutter from our mouths.
It is the boldness, the strength, and the glory it provides.

The problem with poetry
Is not the poetry.
It is that you are not writing it,
It is that this world has so few poems to read,
To inspire others,
And to grow from.
The problem with poetry
Is that there will never be enough.