Poetry.

The word is never seen the same to two diffrent people.

One could see it as ink on paper,

Others see it as a synonym for heaven,

A word to describe their safe haven

From the struggles of the outside world.

 

I see the word differently.

To me its not a writing format,

But instead an art. 

This word contains the lost catergory of the humanities,

As it brings rich creativity to cold hearts,

Rays to a lump of muscle covered in frost,

Like what used to be mine.

What makes the art great is that it leaves a spot,

To remind me of the harsh reality that is around.

That reality brings creativity and versatility,

The ability to keep hopes up,

While showing the spot of ice as an example,

To not be too high,

Or too low.

 

The art will always be with me,

And will be in all,

Just like the elements,

Or the elements of humanities rather,

To keep the nature of the heart alive.

That is the purpose of the heart,

And its what keeps me writing.

 

No matter how you feel about it,

The word will always be around,

To eventually consume you whole,

Into a world of heaven-like status,

Full of creativity and imagination.

 

Remember the art...

Of Poetry.