A gruesome and brutal beast is faced,

Knees in the dirt and knuckles in the sand,

When reality’s slitted eyes are bared to us,

Raping, scraping, gaping into our soul,

and

Its razors flick lasers of blinding light,

Tasers, that reveal the dull nature of our existence.

We are a composition, wearied juxtaposition, of the living and the dead.

Always learning, never learning,

Knowing that what we know is nothing.

                             Yet,

That is where our specialties lie,

In the inconsequential and physically insignificant.

We are forgers, we are creators, we are dreamers.

Drawing from the intangible, painting with colors

Whose vividness can only be seen with the eyes of the mind,

Eyes of the soul.

We know that death always takes its toll, its inevitability unwavering and unchanging

                              Yet,

We fight for beliefs of the future, of the unseen, of the heart.

We have gone where no other has gone before,

Have learned to fight in realms outside of tangibility,

Transcendentally melding voice and mind

To bind a destructive spell of words into

A reckonable force that can carry a movement on its waves.

 

We are able to find truth,

Through the execution of

Letters, language, and love.

 

We are able to save lives,

Not with swords or knives,

But with pens and ink.

 

We are poets,

drawing our power not from the ground

But from the heart, body, soul, mind.

 

With poetry, we are able to beat back that

gruesome and brutal,

blunt and futile,

face of reality.