Poetry is an art,

Something that some people seek,

But to others it comes naturally.

The words seem to just seep into the paper,

Painting their very own picture.

The soul comes out in expressional phrases that only some minds can compute.

How mouths speak circles around words and minds play tricks.

Poetry is a different language all in itself.

It is might, it is power.

It is also frail, and meek.

It breaks the laws of everything that we know.

Minds speaking, souls screaming, and ideas flowing.

It is our lifeline.

The blood pumping in our veins bleed for poetry.

To be heard, to be recognized.

We ourselves are poetry.

Actions speaking louder than words.

The movement of our paths in life.

Like the words flowing onto paper.