Poetry
Poetry is a cough
Lodged in your throat
That can never seem to come out
Uncomfortable and messy
It remains to be
Poetry is the tickle in your nose that wants to be sneezed
But can’t seem to find its way out
Poetry is the words on the tip of your tongue
That are caged by the incapability of being expressed
Simply left as thoughts without a home
Orphans of a mind that can’t even call its own thoughts family
Poetry is more than a feeling
It’s a pulse
It’s a rush
Only a heart can describe
It lives and
It breathes within souls that have so much more than this world can handle
Because they are the world
And they can’t even handle themselves
Poetry is a child
That is loved, cared for, and cherished
By mothers
Called poets
Poets who harbored thoughts for 9 months and birthed them into words of existence
Poetry is a believer
And an activist of pursuing dreams
Poetry is you
Poetry is me
Poetry is anything we make it out to be
And we will make it the best
It is yet to become
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