Poetry is neither here nor there,
But somehow is wrapped up in my hair.
It dances off-white lined pages,
Graced upon lead painted swirls and curves,
Poetry truly is neither here nor there.

Chaotic, cheery, and melancholy all in one,
Poetry does not follow rules, it is simply one.
One with the Earth, perhaps even the fresh blooms of tomorrow,
Poetry is what you make it, neither here nor there.

Swooshing waves, entrancing the senses,
Dander from fresh blooms, tickling the nose,
Harsh feels of bark, grazing ones touch,
Sight of sunsets, magical at once.

Poetry is what poetry is.
Riddled words that touch, feel, smell, and see.
They jump off the page, prance in one's mind,
Yet conceal meanings of both rhyme and chimes.

Poetry is neither here nor there,
But it is up in the air
Always a way to think of more,
Ideas flow, for room to explore.