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