Why do poets write?

Perhaps it lies in the way it's read, sounding like honey dripping from the lips.

Or perhaps it's the feelings even a single word can bring about if placed in the right way.

Perhaps it's the way that poetry pulls out the darkness from each of us.

Or maybe it's the way it pulls out the beauty of the simplest thing, or the light in the darkest of places.

Perhaps it's the way it unites mankind, showing us that whatever we're feeling we're not alone.

Or perhaps it's simplicity, the single words, that together paint a picture and tell a story.

Perhaps it's that it allows us to see that everyone has at least one story that would break your heart, and the best part, We need not be afraid to show it to the world.

Or maybe  it's how it allows us to share our beautiful along with our ugly, and see that everyone has both.

Perhaps it's the freedom, the fact that there's no rules, no set way to create a masterpiece.

Or maybe it's that a mess of humble words arranged in just the right way can be more beautiful than the most well-crafted masterpiece.

Perhaps it's that you can tell a story in three words instead of three thousand,

Or maybe it's that sometimes the most intense feelings can be felt in just a breath or a sentence.

Perhaps it's that some stories and feelings just can't be told logically and with structure

Or maybe it's that it attempts to explain the explained and clarify the unanswered

Perhaps its the way it trickles like a broken faucet or light through an unclosed window

Or maybe it's the way it builds and builds until it explodes on the page.

Perhaps it's because when we're lost this is where we find ourselves again,

Or maybe it's the way it maps out our lives in an unclear and secretive way.

Perhaps it's the way it crushes our enemies with the weight of a few small words,

Or maybe it's that tells us what we're feeling before we even know how to describe it.

Perhaps it's that it describes the indescribable, explains the unexplainable, answers the unanswerable,

Or that it loves the unlovable, quells the questioning, fixes the broken, and heals the hurting.

Perhaps it's that it paints without using any color,

Or maybe it's that it sings when we've lost our voices.

Perhaps it's that it flies when we have lost our wings and swims when we've lost our fins,

Or maybe it's the way it allows us to do those things we've never dared to dream of.

Perhaps it's that we can reach for the unattainable with no fear of falling,

Or maybe it's that it lifts our burdens and allows us to breathe for a little while longer.

Perhaps it's the way the words borrow into our minds, into our hearts, and make a home there,

Or maybe it's the way they all flow out onto paper without us barely even noticing they're doing so.

Perhaps it's the way we can shout my feelings and stories from the rooftop using only a whisper,

Or maybe it's the way we  can share how we really feel when we can no longer find the words to coherently do so anymore.

Perhaps it's the fact that poetry itself is broken, imperfect, and yet it is beautiful.

Or maybe it's the way this gives us hope that as broken and imperfect as we are, we can be perfect too.

Perhaps it's that it quiets the thoughts in our heads,

Or maybe it's the way that it dulls the pain in our hearts.

Perhaps it's the only way we know to express ourselves,

Or maybe it's how it brings us the only understanding we have gotten.

Perhaps it's the way we can be the loudest even though we are silent,

Or maybe it's the way we can rebel against the world, the judgements, the notions we know just aren't fair.

Perhaps it's the way poetry rewrites history, the way it rights all the wrongs, and makes fair all that's unfair,

Or maybe it's the way it makes a world a more beautiful and gentle place to live in.

Perhaps it's the way a perfect combination of all these imperfect things can change people forever,

Or maybe it's that these scribblings our hearts are our footprints in the sands of time.

Perhaps it's the way it feels when the words are all out of us, how clean and whole we feel even if it's only a little while,

Or maybe it's the way we have found our place, our peace, our happiness in such a simple thing.

And this all, my friends, Perhaps this is how I fell in love with something so imperfect,

Perhaps this is why we write poetry.