What is poetry?

Is it the art of elegantly knitting words together,

for the purpose to intice or seduce.

Or is it a way to finally help make sense,

of the messy never ending chaos inside us?

The chaos that lies to us 

forcing us to numb our senses 

in hopes of finding some sort of release.

The lies spoken with venomous intent

but promises a sweet honey like sleep.

When those that surround us, look upon the masks we use

to try to shield ourselves from the cruelty of our reality.

Should we reach out for their help?

Or should we remain silent for fear of being shunned

or being looked down upon? Or worse ignored and ridiculed?

Can you feel it? 

The ice starting at the very tips of your toes;

reaching and encasing your heart in a frosted prison.

You gasp for air, trying to grasp and comprehend 

“Why!? How do I make it stop?”

But that’s the thing.

You know how to make it stop, don’t you.

Or so, you think you do.

The disembodied voices and sinister lies tell you to go to sleep.

But your heart, listen! Do you hear that?

It starts off as a low murmur, then a whisper, 

then a shout! Then so suddenly...

“Fight!” Your heart cries “Don’t give up!” Your heart begs.

And so you shut the voices out to the best of your abilities and you fight!

You fight for your leaving breath.

For your aching and puffy eyes.

For your healing wounds.

So you pick up your pen and paper

until your hand and wrist aches but alas

your mind is silent. Your soul at ease.

Realieved and free to breath and to know you’ve made it another day.

So tell me now, me dearest friend...

Can you see what poetry means to me?