Whitman doesn’t recreate Lincoln’s death.
With the stroke of a pen, he borrows his tragic ending,
Bringing his glory back to life.
Neil Hilborn doesn’t simply mention his mental health,
He takes us on a grand journey where his words seduce us
into not only hearing his experiences but emboldening us to triumph against illness.
We don’t relive our tragedies, instead these memories are tucked inside
Of dark dusty boxes. We beg for their burial and deny their existence
For fear of what lies inside ourselves.
Poetry is more than frilly words.
More than a hobby.
More than us.
These lines and stanzas are potent concoctions of everything life has to offer.
The rawest human experiences are
scribbled onto paper,
typed in a chatroom,
whispered to a lover,
Those who rub society the wrong way with Honesty. Boldness. And Courage.
Words seep out of the artists’ thoughts and for a breathtaking moment
We become a spectator onto the world we are running from.
Poetry is not loved because of its function as a creative outlet.
It is loved because of its acceptance and demand of genuine truth.