This Poem is a Jar

Poetry is that flickering belle That forms out of tears And broken dreams. Poetry is life birthed from sorrow. Poetry is not a thesaurus, Or a grammatical exemplar, Or literary devices, Or forced rhymes. No- poetry is like the irrepressible burn that pricks the corners of one’s eyes in the dark depths of hopelessness, It is misery incarnate, The beautiful child of discontent. Poetry is an escape from pain as I mourn, A wondrous world as I become bored, And, when I have been broken, Forgotten, and Locked away, A skeleton key. Poetry is the flightless bird that still sings From the floor of a wretched abyss. It is the light with which we fight, A reprieve to the tyranny of the pitch-black night. If you decide that you want to write a poem, don’t. If, in between smiles and laughs you decide to write a story, stop. If you choose to write to win an award, don’t bother. Why write then? We write because we have no choice. We write because it soothes our immortal sorrows, Or tempers our boiling rage, Or because we are overflowing with inspiration, Or passion, Or maybe even happiness. Because it lifts us up with weightless wings that overpower the repressive gravity, And so as we hold the pen we are angels, Angels with feathers and songs and HOPE. We write because it comes out of us like an unstoppable force. We write because it anchors us and keeps us from floating away, Solitary, Into the vast ocean. We write because it comes bursting out of us amidst a fit of passion like a scalding geyser, Because it’s in our heads like a broken record and we have to get it out out OUT, Because it’s 3AM and the nightmares won’t stop when we wake up, Because the boat is sinking and we need to bail it out, Because our minds are only capable of holding so much before they burst open and overflow like an inundation of boiling water, Like a run-on sentence that keeps going and going and going and going and going. Poetry isn’t a choice, or a formula, or a definition. It is a command. It is the magic with which one can turn a blade of grass into a sword, or a star into hope. Poetry is the solution to an unsolvable problem, and it keeps us going, Lets us carry on, Defies the iron will of logic. Poetry is as unstoppable as love. It can move any mountain, Accomplish any task. Poetry is a constant friend, One I can depend on to embrace my limp body, To whisper sweet verses into my ear. Oh, my sweet cathartic pleasure, If only for an instant, you hold this power, This power to assuage the pangs of my burns with words like flowing streams. Poetry is water. It is sporadic, uncontrollable, Volatile and temperamental in its shape. And though we can neither stop it nor live without it, Me may, if we so choose Catch it In a jar Like fireflies. It is 3:00 AM. Gazing out the window, I see, obscured by fog and dark clouds, A single star shining brightly. The corners of my lips curve upwards slightly, Forming a crescent moon, Brilliant in the night.