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.