Life is poetry.
The delivery and how you read it
Changes its meaning and how it’s interpreted.
How you deliver yourself and how you read your mind
Changes people’s feelings and how they’re influenced.
So make a good impression
With both words and thyself.
These words place dents in the world
Periods mark the end of sentences of childhood
In which painful words were spoken
Yet still go on to create new chapters
Because it’s too early in life to draw conclusions.
No. Not the end yet.
Sentences of poetry are what bridge together
Chapter after chapter
Getting me from point A to point B
To the Glossary of Life’s Unknowns.
Life’s little chain links of words and language
Link together our social networks
Life is a collection of words
Sometimes a bitch, sometimes the most precious 5 pound bundle ever in existence
Life is ALL. But also a myth.
Half is forgotten down toilets before the Hangovers
While the other half is spent in expensive colleges of the world’s youth and wise
Life is Everywhere, especially in between a hardcover, resting in your pulsating hands.
Commas like comas separate sentences of life
Exclamation marks excite me like fireworks
I’m exploding
I’m an explosion
Now watch me ignite….in life
Like rocketships and birthday candles
As life gets older, my spirit won’t age a bit
While the critics create pools of confusion,
Most of it will come from
Not being able to see through their pencil sketches
Of a million question marks.
They’ll become consumed in them and smother.
Although confusion was always their natural habitat.
Like, like fish drowning in the sea
Or Worms being buried alive in soil
Critics being suffocated by confusion
Impossible, but it just happened
That’s just life.
The world’s metaphorical lines
Are equivalent to my sarcasm.
They say it’s raining cats and dogs.
I look outside and think
“it’s raining poetry and metaphors.
Dogs everywhere but cats fear the rain,
So it can’t be raining cats.
then listen to the world’s annoyance
Everytime I dismantle its most common puns.

Life Is Poetry.
As a kid, Dad would let me ride along
In his red truck
Which turned out to be personification
Because that vehicle spoke to me
As we’d curve along the country road’s hips
Like a pervert, that truck stuck to her
And tasted her rocks, gravel, and ridges of earth
And like an audience,
I’d hear, feel, taste, and sense the feeling of the poetic life
With closed eyes, ears open, and tongue out, arms stretched back.
Like catching snowflakes on the tips on my taste buds while dancing in the snow, not the rain this time
The cold softness becoming urgent, hot urges
Of wanting back the winters as a kid in that warm, red truck,
Enough to where I’d melt the whole idea of it.
A flashback as the chapters have been reversed.
Life is Poetry. Life is a Story.
Better yet Life is a Novel.
With a billion characters, but in my book, I am the main character
The center of attention
With a million and one conflicts and a flimsy, developing resolution
Encircled by rising actions of suspense.
Especially after my father sold his red truck
which was a pervert because it stuck to the country road’s hips
And tasted her rocks, gravel, and ridges of earth
No longer did I hear, feel, taste, and sense the feeling of the poetic life
But instead, I became it.
Now listen, here’s the falling action
Where my poetry and my life fall into good literature
I became the poetic life.
The story of a life, the chapters that create my novel of a life.
Life is Poetry. Life is a Story. Life is a Novel.
A goddamn out-of-stock bestseller in which you can’t put down.
Whether you’d want to or not
Where we may never guess its ending
And cliffhangers and surprises unravel throughout our years.
Life is the best piece of literature God has ever written and read to us.
And that’s all.
Our lives are just creations of a book by our Creator, our Writer.
Life.
It just is.