Poetry.

The door to the soul.

The one way to comb through the nappy-ness of thoughts.

The introvert’s way of saying, I can speak.

The misunderstood peer’s way of saying, this is who I am.

The victim’s way of saying, I have a voice.

The shy person’s way of saying, here I am.

The artist’s way of saying, accept me if you dare.

Poetry.

A discombobulated array of words that come together.

Words that express feelings, opinions and struggles:

The single mother’s woes,

The depressed person’s strife,

The lonely child’s fears.

Poetry.

The only way to find the words that will describe one’s feelings and emotions.

Poetry.

The ear that will listen to the constant babbling of controversy that one’s thoughts bring.

Poetry.

The courage to stand up and tell everyone who won’t listen “I’m not finished yet”.

Poetry.

The audacity to boldly proclaim “THIS IS MY LIFE. What do you have to say about it?”

Poetry.

The authoritative attitude that challenges anyone to speak against it.

Poetry.

The release of the continuous surge of thoughts that enter my mind.

The expression of what cannot be said or understood.

The freedom to step out of the suffocating grasp of reality and enter a place of inner peace.

The strength to lay out each ailment of my stressful life and reveal them for the true villains they are.

Poetry sets me free.

It allows me to stretch out my tired, achy wings and fly.

Fly until I cannot see the ground anymore and escape the bounds of life.

Why do I write poetry?

Because poetry rescues me from the confines of me.