My Dearest Friend

Poetry...?

why is this word so friendly to me?

just the sound of it brings out the sun in a torturous storm,

 it understands what I am trying to say to the world,

even though the world looks down on me.

Poetry…?

has no boundary of what I can say and do,

my pencil is as free as the air around us,

it drifts across the earth carefree,

not even stopping to find where it is.

Poetry…?

something I can call a home,

and I can visit that home with open arms,

that doesn’t lead to pain and regret,

when it let goes of me.

Poetry…,

There is so much I want to say so much I want to express about poetry,

but all I can say is,

poetry is my friend,

and I am poetry’s friend.