Poetry is the balm that soothes all wounds,

The rose colored tint that paints over the windows of the soul.

 

In poetry, life can be construed in any which way,

In reverence or heightening of beauty or pain.

But nonetheless, it magnifies,

In the rawest, most cathartic ways.

 

Poetry can be the oasis

In a weary traveler’s seemingly endless stretch of scorched earth.

The soothing crystal waters that drift dreamily across the ground,

Enveloping the body whilst cooling the soul.

 

Poetry is the many lenses of a camera,

The varying degrees of distortion and miscoloring

Alter the appearance of life in a way that suits the author’s desires.

Be it for better or worse,

Poetry allows the words of its speaker

To flutter across all borders and bask in the sunlight of authenticity.

 

Poetry is my oasis

My balm, my lens,

Poetry teaches me that I am the artist

The truth and my memories are the paints-

Tinged with the past and ambitions for the future

My experience and words serve as paintbrushes-

The messengers of my sentiments.

My medium is the canvas-

The barren slate where all my toil shall manifest.

Through poetry my truth can come to light,

And I have sole sovereignty to water down or pigment the facets of life,

In whatever manner I choose.