Poetry is Pathos

 

If there’s anything that poetry has taught me, it is how to feel.

Poetry is pathos you see. Through art, it allows feelings without identity to take form.

I once had a friend, you see. The idea of her? A fluffy ball of powdered sugar.

Always spoke of “I’m alright” along with a sheepish smile.

Never thought that the reality is that she’d be the polar opposite.

Sometimes she’d admit that mentally, it wasn’t all kittens and rainbows.

I couldn’t tell how it wouldn’t click with me when I let her pain show.

That’s the thing about poetry, it amplifies emotion through imagery and sound through pauses.

Through rhyme.

 

It finally snapped when I read her notebook, filled with expression, imagery and metaphors, catchy flows.

Something about being a burden, being overwhelmed, needed to ease all the hurtin’.

I finally understood, that’s what was really underneath the hood.

A broken machine, in need of oiling.

Vessels portrayed the definition of her toiling.

That’s when I understood her pain, I wanted to erase the rain.

So I wrote her in response, I finally get you.

What you wrote, is all of this true?

She nodded yes, I held her close.

Later on, she realized that I don’t mean the most. But I don’t mind.

Poetry is pathos, after all, and I already wrote what I meant here.

This may or may not be goodbye, but what does it matter?

I’m really a short-spoken guy, aren’t I?

I’ve learned to rhyme too late, and I have sealed my fate.

Poetry is pathos.

 

And now I finally know.