Dear Webster

Poetry is the sound of a slaming door
Echoed through dark skies and dim street lights
The sound that says "You are alone
But someone is always there"

Poetry is the cold grip of a brothers  hand

When the flat line of a monitor is wrapped around his neck

The touch that says “Thanks for the memories

But please forget”


Poetry is a soft wind

Grinding against sandstone from infinites upon infinites

That screams the steady call

“Stand for all 

yet fall for everything”


I am not poetry

Poetry is me

Poetry is mine


Poetry is my conscious canvas that shows no color

And has no eyes

Yet is a renaissance in movement

In syllables

In song

Poetry is mine


Poetry is my only thing more tangible than truth

Poetry is my only thing more needed than nurture

Poetry is my only thing softer than silk

Poetry is my only thing stronger than stone

Poetry is my body

Poetry is mine


Poetry is the rhythmic rush of blood to my body

Forcing the contractions in my chest

To seduce my hand towards a pen

To make love through ink strokes


Poetry is the selfish nerves in my cuticles

That beg me to feel hills like white elephants 

Beckoning for release of my mind


Poetry is the scarlet hormonal highway

Connecting the chest to the head

Locking each and every breath to my body

Desperately begging for a firm grip on wood of a pencil 


Poetry is matter

That can be destroyed or created


Poetry is Energy

That can never be conserved

Poetry is mine 


Poetry is the steady pulse in my lungs that drives my feet into the ground

It is the abusive lover that i keep coming back to

It whispers both soft and sharp “You cannot live with me

Yet you cannot live without me”


Poetry is walking contradictions

A puzzle that will only make sense if you look through the glass of poetry


Poetry is subtle sibilance syllabically singing soft speech

To soothe the savage beast.


Juxtaposition describing the incandescent nature of my mind

With the lustful need of the heart


Poetry is my lonley lover that my body is tethered to

Poetry is the force of gravity gradually pulling me towards the earth




Poetry is not my lustful chest

Poetry is not my paranoic head

Poetry is not my self indulged stomach

Poetry is mine 


Poetry is the 3 fold cord that draws me into the ever spiraling world

A world that is constantly drilling into itself for aspiration


Poetry is an unheard trumpet blast 

Shattering the sky upon the death of a soldier

Bringing the clouds to the ground

So people become blind to the tears


Poetry is a bottle gourd plant

Shading my unforgiving pen strokes

Brewing from my ungrateful  hand

Controlled by my conquering cuticles.


Poetry is the transcendence of glass to sand

The sound of glass shattering infinitely upon the shout from my chest


“Ya'aburnee poetry!

You bury me! 



This poem is about: 
Our world


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