We Call It Poetry

 
With poetry--  
 
A lonely woman  
can write about her lover  
on valentine's day.  
She can describe his most endearing traits  
line upon line upon line--  
                               as if...he existed.  
 
A young girl  
can share her deepest erotic thoughts,  
demonstrating an ability  
to take the reader's hand  
and guide them with her words,  
leaving them satiated--  
but only  
if she's skilled enough.  
 
For those depressed  
and those searching  
to release their pain--  
It's a bloodletting.  
 
They've been raped,  
they've been bullied,  
ignored and even wounded.  
The dark side held them too long.  
 
They need you to listen  
or simply just notice they're alive.  
They may wonder if writing  
is all a fruitless endeavor  
when their written cries for help  
go unnoticed.  
 
But behind poetry's walls...  
 
A man can offer us a character,  
from a fictitious town  
that resembles trees, sidewalks,  
roads and even paths  
of his own treasured youth.  
 
An adolescent can share a broken heart  
with a seemingly invisible world.  
He/she can release all the angst,  
tear by tear,  
until the poem has ended--  
         for now.  
 
Poetry is a haven  
for ideas, rants, memories or thoughts  
that otherwise would go unheard by most.  
The family simply wouldn't understand.    
 
It is a platform  
for those skilled or unskilled;  
for those confident  
and those apprehensive;  
for those that standout  
and those whose computer  
is their only escape.  
 
Some here,  
have painstakingly learned  
poetry has its elements:  
meter, rhyme, metaphor, and more.  
As for others,  
form, cadence, line breaks...  
are all unimportant.  
 
The prolific and the obscene;  
those with morals  
and those without;  
religious; atheists...  
they're all involved.  
 
People have left poetry  
for greener pastures,  
only to re-emerge  
days, weeks, or even years later  
when the writer needed another ear  
to listen to all he/she wanted to say.  
 
It is a source of frustration,  
joy and confusion,  
all mentioned into one place.  
 
It is your yesteryear, your today,  
and all your tomorrows.  
 
It's a percentage of your life,  
your time and your thoughts.  
It consists of creation  
and destruction.  
 
It's a statement; it's a confession.  
It's a voice that understands;  
It's a disciplinarian that doesn't.  
It's a welcome sign.  
It's a keep out sign.  
It's a microcosm of continents  
and far off cultures.  
It's a ghost from the past.  
It's a community.  
It's a small town.  
It's a lyrical lagoon.  
 
It's you...it's me...it's us  
sailing within  
our own private harbor.  
 
And we call it  
 
POETRY.