Why I write, Why I love, Why I live.

Location

33023
United States
25° 59' 12.7464" N, 80° 12' 55.44" W

What poetry means to me? I could sit here all day and list the reasons I write and what poetry means to me, but that would not quite express the passion I have for it. Writing for me is more than just the accumulation of words and phrases into paragraphs, and poetry to me is more than just making sentences into stanzas. When I write I get the sense of peace that most times I lack, I see the world through anyone’s eyes when I write. Why do I write? I may never find it easy to put in bullets why the moving of my fingers on a keyboard is like the transfer of my thoughts to the computer. It is as if my brain is the hard drive, my heart is the rhythm, and my fingers are the display. I am allowed to be free, something most of us never get the chance to experience. I cannot explain to you enough, the amount of teardrops that well up in my eyes as I write, as I feel. We go through most of the day in a robotic sense of self; I only know the true me in writing form. I am the words written on this page. My words are my brother’s keeper. Can you feel the beat of my drums yet? Can you feel the wind on your face as we take a ride through a safari in Africa? Do you understand yet what poetry means to me? But maybe, just maybe I haven’t made my point yet. Because my life relies on the elements in the periodic table I have created for myself through my words and beats. People tend to not understand the life I have created for myself in the city of rhythms. A society solely based on the freedom of fingers across a keyboard expressing things I may not always be able to portray through my actions. My civilization goes far back before the Mayans and Aztecs. My words go far past the flying cars and robot house cleaners the future seems to hold. What caught me about the world of poetry the most was how it felt so real. Edgar Allen Poe’s words crawled off the page and ran up my spine sending chills through the cold, corpse of an alive body. My heart is beating once again; my pulse is hitting the inner layer of my skin much like a raindrop pummels a roof during a hurricane or like a funnel cloud penetrates the earth. Poetry, words, rhythms, and beats they all mean the world to me, they are my world, they are my friends, they are my very existence and being. So, how much more can it mean?

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