The silence a mist the sound.

Pink, blue, black and red.
All of these ink's conveying words that cannot be said.
Happy, distorted, euphoric, depressed.
Poetry is the art we resort to when we feel oppressed.
Rain, pain, sex, and love.
We write when we feel there is no hope from above.
Haiku, iambic pentameter, free verse.
We write to revive fellow poets from their hearse.
Whitman, Cummings, Shakespere, Frost.
Have you ever wrote a poem when you just feel lost?
Wishes, stars, sun and dreams.
Sometimes poets speak using a familiar theme.
Metaphor, simile, hyperbole, allusion.
All of these terms can fill us with confusion.
Blue, black, red, and pink.
Poetry is our outlet when we just can't think.
There, thou, the, and thee.
Poetry is the language of the free.
Power, wisdom, release, and college.
Working with words is the best kind of knowledge.
Mother, daughter, student, teacher.
Poetry is my only kind of preacher.
Black, red, pink and blue.
Poetry is my friend, through and through.
Verbs, prepositions, vowels and nouns.
Poetry is the silence a mist all the sound.
Blue, red, pink, and black.
Poetry has always got my back.