I can't eloquently express what I love about poetry;

All I know

is that my ardency grows within me like a tumor, 

a parasite I enjoy hosting. 

All I know

is the freedom the pen offers me, 

the security of a blank page staring tranquilly up at me.

All I know

is the feeling that grows in my stomach, 

unintended, 

primal as lust,

hardwired in me until I turn to dust. 

All I know

is the clench of the jaw,

and the beautiful feeling that gnaws at me. 

All I know

is the gentle peace 

that only siezes when I stop writing. 

All I know

is the words that spring from a well somewhere deep inside,

always constant,

even when I am going through hell.

No,

I cannot adequately communicate the incommunicable.

I cannot point to what I love most about poetry.

All I know

is this feeling, 

and 

I hope that it stays.