The beautiful thing is that poetry is messy,
In this it reflects life so well.
Perhaps that is why it so easily captures meaning,
In it one holds a mirror to oneself.
They say art imitates life,
And what is poetry if not art?
For it is an instrument for the ages,
After my own heart.
Our first encounter was in classroom,
It’s where we had our introduction.
At first it seemed an exclusive avocation,
A task requiring demanding contemplation.
You could imagine this might intimidate child.
But with some guidance,
Perseverance proved worthwhile.
It was then I knew poetry was no elite pursuit,
But in fact an avenue for all to voice their truth.
The words of a poem are loosely defined.
They transcend their limits to become divine.
There are no boundaries for interpretation,
The only limit is your imagination.
No amount of chains can tame its nature.
No amount of training can keep it in line.
It is a way of being that shirks orthodox restraints.
A rebellion allowing you to free your mind.
Reading poetry is fine.
Writing it is better.
There is something to be said,
About the release felt with each letter.
Every word on the page stores a wealth of emotion,
With meanings ranging from shallow to deep,
Much like the ocean.
Rage or excitement,
Sickness or health,
Each phrase carries weight,
And the burden is felt.
Whether reading or writing it,
Poetry leaves its mark.
Its power is infectious,
And its value is stark.