What is This “Poetry” You Speak Of?

When a book of verses is placed in front of me,

They mix in heady lines and waver so that I cannot see

My eyes are misty, my mind swims at the sight

I try to understand poems- no, really- with all my might.

Stories of purple ships are never what they mean

It is but a tale of violet wedding dresses, or perhaps a bruise’s sheen

Limericks, haikus, and sonnets are among the types to choose

Even so, my pencil to paper remains ever blank, hesitant to even a clue.

The poems of Dickinson, Thomas, and Longfellow look cute at first surmise

“This is easy!” My teacher exclaims- though I know it is all lies

Feathers of hope may be compared to raising a bar

Though as much as I rage against the light, I know I won’t go far

To be diverged in a yellow wood seems to all too picturesque

But the rhythm and rhyme are all for which I feel I can truly attest

Prose may not bounce so blithely, yet the intentions are much more clear

Full sentences come easily to me, and I know I have nothing to fear

If poems are so bad, you cry, then why on earth are you here?

What a conundrum to stump with, so I shall tell you in a rhyme:

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, yet I know this cannot be true

One can gauge the value of a painting in such little time

But a poem finds different musings, endless in possibility for me, myself, and you.