I am poetry and

I screech and struggle to release a syllable

Then, melt into a river of words and liberty.

Our mind written on paper; magic!

There is but one to thank, POETRY.

This witty, little trickster is masked by many;

A gamboling horse that man craves to tame.

She speaks languages of love, grief, plenty,

Playing musical melodies as if it is a game.

There is but one to blame, POETRY.

With the appetite of a crazed hunter,

Man flatters Erato to undress her sweet truth.

His natural instincts are to ruin and deflower,

Dissecting her power as a hungry sleuth,

Ravishing and analyzing her secrets.

POETRY shys away from men that devour.

There is comfort and trust in a trail of letters.

It has the power to make man warm.

It pens mystery then treasure.

Gratitude is due to POETRY

For her delightful pleasures.