Two years ago, poetry

was a writer pleasuring themselves over a page

a perverse smile on their faces

as they worked the pen, worked the pen.

Or perhaps one so overtaken by, enveloped in their feelings

they were left reeling, as

the darkness both blinded and suffocated

a sufficient justification for writing made incoherent with melodrama

I surmised.

Poetry was intense ire as my eyes scanned text mired down

by vague descriptions, strange diction, an addiction to

vibrant nonsensical bursts of figurative language -

At first.

 

Then I began reading in earnest

Listening with interest

Then, when failure brought me low, I began writing

And poetry became enticing, each new idea put to a page inviting

And I learned a thing or two.

 

Concise, honest lines can make your eyes sting, even

when read off the page of a stranger.

I adore alliteration, and plosives are perfectly priceless, truly titillating, the tongue

taps out its enthusiatic agreement.

Can't be a slacker, if a crack at assonance is something you're after.

Some things can't be stated with more words, or they lose something,

and sometimes a literal prose statement fails to define.

Problems can be solved with poetry, through oneself,

or mabe another saw your soul in the text you presented

saw that you meant it

 

Poetry is movement, what you see-hear-smell-taste- touch,

wrapping your brain around a subject too much, overthinking.

Drinking in your daily experiences, but actually appraising the flavor.

Dark depression, Jubilance, all left up to chance.

 

Poetry is shared experience and hence, I'm warming up to it.