The scratches on the papers are nonsensical to me.

If there's only one set answer, you see,

With that, you could fail indefinitely.

Math..numbers, they never cease to inspire me.

No, my inspiration burst alive through poetry, through lines.

When my feelings twist themselves into letters on a page.

When not a soul seems to understand my foreign tongue.

When you are forsaken, you still have imagination.

You posses the power to unveil your intrinsic self.

That's the power of poetry.

You no longer hide in the shadows because there's nothing you can't do.

When another deciphers your writing and instantaneously there's a bond,

An affinity

A love for the same.

A burst of sensation. A longing to express what's going on in that crazy head of yours.

Its an enigma: your imagination meandering through another's mind.

How much clearer can you get with out going inside?

While you write about the sad lives, you write about oppression, you write about prosperity, you write about obsession.

You hold the expertise to fabricate your own masterpiece.

To reveal your world to an outsider.

What you see, smell, taste, feel.

Like the fine grainy sand on my toes and the salty ocean water falling from my fingertips.

While the glassy surface shoots glistening diamonds that dance across my skin,

The sun is bright and you feel it too.

That's the power of poetry.

What does it mean to you?