What is Poetry...

What is poetry but a history of the human heart,
its joys and aches woven through time,
a thread of truth spun by countless hands.
All poets speak the same language,
wrestling with the same restless spirits:
fear, love, death, longing, adventure, failure.
We are seekers of what lies beneath,
hunters of shadows and light.
 
The pleasure of rhythm,
the echoes of sound—
words that feel more
and mean better.
We stretch them across the silence,
carry them from the known
to the uncharted,
wild, unhinged,
and alive.
 
Oh, how we long to hold poetry in our marrow,
to store every verse,
each fleeting line,
this romance with time.
We write for ourselves,
yet always for strangers,
hoping they find pieces of themselves
in the fragments of our truths.
 
Why do you read my words?
When your gaze is indifferent to me,
do you stay because they hold something real?
Do you feel comfort
or hear connection
in the quiet rhythm of the page,
as your eyes trace the spaces between lines?
 
Or is it because we love poetry
more than we love ourselves?
Because it sits uniquely,
where silence was—
a placeholder for longing.
These words,
small as they are,
stretch farther than the edges of this page.
 
When you saw the title, did it call you?
Did it offer a whisper, a welcome,
a taste of something untasted,
a key to a door of simple lines?
How did two words pull you near—
two words that opened
the depths of this moment,
this offering,
this memory of the human heart?