This thick tithe of pure perfection is slammed on my desk—
First day of school. First day of volunteered AP agony.
Dark, warm eyes rave over the pages and pages,
But of what?
Dark, furrowed eyebrows pinch towards the center of my colored face.
The words that pierce the effervescent heart in my chest.
Though my brain begs to differ, feeling like molten metal in head.
But the merit the author conducts gives me a comforting feeling.
Scouring hours and hours, wondering what I’m getting wrong.
It hits me then, the epiphany is right there and I reach out and grasp.
Too much focus was on the what. Too much focus on the structure.
It needed to be on the why of it all.
Poetry isn’t just the softness of whoever strikes a paper with a pen.
Poetry is the heart of the writer and lets them breathe everything out.
Don’t make the poem do something, let it do something to you.
It won’t hurt you, but it’s not easy...it’s how the world works.
My teacher would say that my poem would need more work.
But is any piece of artwork truly done? No.
Writing what comes straight to mind let’s me spread my wings,
So that I don’t suffocate over the what...but the why.