What Is Poetry
What is poetry
But an echo of language;
The sanctity of words in which words can speak?
Pity.
“Angry”
Can never be enough to express
The burn that drives itself between the bone and the flesh
And the breath so empty it bursts beyond bulged lips,
Trying to find purpose in thrusting into the ear.
Pity.
“Happy”
Can never be more than
The trickling beads of warmth pooling down the naked back
As the eyes grip the image it so desperately wishes to keep.
What is poetry
But an echo of language;
A sanctity of words in which words can speak?
It is the recollection
Accumulation
Of memories;
The remains of an image that can pour from the eyes
Dripping onto the tongue,
That slithers from side to side
Where it swipes its residue
On nothing but sound. Yet,
Time is more important
Than having your words speak your words for you.
The devouring of the man standing on your shoulders
Is an opportunity pounding in the belly of time;
And there ain’t no time to waste-
Teeth over tongue-
Before the birth is still.
And words become only words
That speak for you.
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