literature

Poetry Is . . .

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Literature Text

Poetry is . . .
      the tears of those who have forgotten to cry
             the raw emotion and grief that flows from eyes
                    their door to a better place
                           their razor used to cope
                                  but also the therapy to feel free
      the laughter of those who smile but don't know why
             the reason they do not frown
                    their path for others to the happy place
                           their photograph of Life's happiest moments
                                  their definition of "poetry"
      the hate and reasons to hate of those enraged
             those caught on the foul end of the deal
                    the spite and envy they hide inside
                           the fire within and scowl out
                           the force used to beat paper with words before it becomes fists and faces
      the anxiety shrouding us as we brave the dark
             the shudder at every creak and twigsnap
                   those who left at home the cross and now must pray
                          the nightmare that ensues
                                 the words taken down to tell the survivor's tale
      the shock and surprise of what comes out of nowhere
             the smiles, the laughs, and the photos that follow
                    or the pain in the heels after they flee
                           the speed of the pulse and feelings
                                  but also the slow, nearly still-standing time
      the very first kiss with a Mr. or Miss Right
             the sparks that light the darkest night
                    the pounding heart when the other is near
                           the passion of the joy undescribed by words
                                  and even the two little words that bind for eternity

Poetry is also . . .
      the rhythm of snowflakes as they dance down to Earth
             the Winter's painting of ice as she brushes it across the lakes
                    the pain they feel in the clouds' bitter, ice-daubed breath
                           the graceful sway in every bare tree
                                  the lullabies of the sky to cue an eternal sleep
      the drumming and even falling of a fresh Spring rain
             the sun's rays at the end of every storm
                    the warmth of the sun when he shows his face
                           the running colors of blue and white as the sun's breath melts it all
                                  ad the new Earth that hides beneath
      then the come of a new sun
             and his heat as he burns bright
                    the smiles that are just as warm and show the fun
                           the love that he sparks between the youth
                                  especially the joy as students run from school's clutches to Summer's embrace
      and then the sadness as the cycle comes to an end and begins again
             as leaves release their green and absorb the orange and brown
                     (but as they fall to their death they give back to Mother Earth)
                           And young Autumn brings with her the cold reminders of arriving Sister Winter
                                  then splashes brilliant colors around
But oh, what else is Poetry . . . ?
      the strength of the weak
             the courage of the meek
                    the way the defeated brag of their victories
                           those left forgotten play their memories
                                  reminds the hopeless to keep determination
                                         and the undesired to express their fascination
      and yet the weaknesses of the strong
             but also the fear of those who have been brave for too long
                    the aggravations as champions admit the battles lost
                           and the way one explains what or whom they forgot
                                  the determined as they explain the loss of hope
                                         and even how easily occupied become too bored and mope
      the voices of the dumb
             the ears of the deaf
                    the sight of the blind
                           the scents smelled by those with no nose
                                  and the feelings of the numb.
      every emotion
             every season
                    everyone and their hidden skill
                           everyone and their hidden flaw
                                  and how each is expressed
So, what is poetry to me?
Poetry is . . .
      All
             Expression
                    Feeling
                           Reason
                                  Story
Life
I wrote this way back on June 6 (or at least started it) for a project in my English class. We had to do "Poetry Is . . . " and say what Poetry meant to us. The thing is, I highly, highly doubt anyone but one or two other people knew what Poetry was. Examples of what they did include, "Poetry is diving into the ocean on the first day of summer vacation" and "Poetry is walking out onto the soccer field with the smell of fresh cut grass". The thing is, most people now when they think of people who write poetry think of the "Emo" kids who write things like, "Despite the brightest days Caused by the dreaded sun, My heart and soul are blacker Than the darkest nights". None of the examples embody what poetry really does mean. To them, maybe, but to me, poetry can't be summed up with something so . . . generic</I>. It's just so broad. It's like trying to describe fruit using one single word. "Sweet!" but what about lemons and avocados? Are those too sweet? Then eat a lemon without puckering. Poetry, the same way, can't be summed up with "running into the ocean on the first day of summer vacation". That to me means you have no idea what you're writing about and are just doing this because you have to. This is describing a very broad topic, not just saying what happiness means to you! Poetry can be happy. Then again, I can be happy too. But I'm not always happy. Neither is poetry. Poetry can be happy, sad, loving, angry, it can be anything and everything, so I wrote this. And it is probably my best work yet.
Comments8
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ileanawhiteshade912's avatar
Oh, this is lovely! I love the typography; and I loved how the single word, LIFE is written at the end in large font! And I love the contrasts you put ('weakness of the strong', and all the rest) as the poem nears the end.

Although, there are some minor typos that could be found there. To point some out: 'sadness' is spelled 'sadnes' in the line, 'and then the sadness as the cycle comes to an end and begins again.', and 'and' is spelled as 'ad' in the line, 'ad the new Earth that hides beneath', and 'Mother Earth' is spelled as 'Mothr Earth' in the line, '(but as they fall to their death they give back to Mothr Earth). I'm sorry for being a grammar police.

Overall, great job, yeah? Faveworthy! :D