The Power of the Poem
Words bounce between lines.
They fill my head
and release through my hand.
Sometimes, my hand shakes.
With excitement at the creativity
flowing from it?
With pain from the dark words
I have strung together?
With discontent for all things
that I cannot understand?
With joy from the ability
to express myself?
The words are jumbled.
They are dark ink
splotched on pristine paper.
They are ruiners of absence
and promote omnipresence.
They are the interrupting noise
to a peaceful silence.
They wrap around my irises
and claim my brain as their captive.
They flood my journals
with waves of emotion
and crash upon the shore
of every book I own.
How do I rush to write it all?
Read it all?
Can I express the exact depth
of my feelings?
Can I understand the exact feelings
of others?
Only with words?
Of course.
The words make up the message.
If they are the message
then I am only the messenger.
The messenger does not write
but delivers.
The poem, then,
must write itself
and encourage its own distribution.
The beauty of poetry is not that it is written,
but that is shared.
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