My greatest friendship

Has lied within the tip of the pencil

That which moves

In many forms.

Syllables that dance around

The atoms of the paper

And rejoice

After every rhyme.

Stanzas hand in hand

To construct an image

That man can see

Within the mind.

Words, words

That are uncomprehensible

To others

Who do not know me.

An escape

An understanding

An existentialism,

That only binds

My heart

My soul

My mind.

Ideas

That construct an adrenaline

After every line and sentence,

That which we call

The art of poetry.