Spinning words slowly

One by one

They fall into place

Using strands of words

That come from your heart

Beads of blood

That cling daintily

Reflected upon your face

As a way to show

The people around you

What is there to see

How the red pulses

How it thrums

To a beat that cannot

Be seen or touched

A pacemaker that is not

Tangible at all

But somehow

Makes everything

Bearable

Poetry is its name

The way words shine

On the surface of a paper

Or how the letters peel off

Like music notes

And becomes a ballad

All on its own

How it sings and shrieks

Hums and harbors

Dark and deep secrets

That have been dissected

And lifted up 

With gloved hands

Underneath the blaring

White lights of the world

For all to ponder and observe

What could this mean

What is this

Why do I feel warm 

And pleasant

Why do I feel heavy

As if the weight could not

Be less heavier than 

A thousand suns

The fierce longing 

When I lose something

Very precious to me

What is it called

It is Poetry

What is Poetry

It is raw 

Raw is not good

Or so I've heard

It is poison

And must be cooked

And seasoned

Before the world accepts it

But Poetry

Poetry can be raw

Poetry can make no sense

And still be beautiful

And terrible

And ugly

And still accepted for who it is

It is the tumbleweed 

In an abandoned town

It is the lone friend

Staring after you

As you walk away

It is the ink 

Running through your veins

It is the sun and the moon

And the infinite amount of stars

It is the rain and the wind

Lashing out against the earth

It is the world

Turning every day

It is the people

Starving and crying

And fighting and laughing

Walking then sleeping

But watching and living

It is and will

It has been and may be

It is not them or us

But you, me, and we.