My Dearest Friend
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Poetry...?
why is this word so friendly to me?
just the sound of it brings out the sun in a torturous storm,
it understands what I am trying to say to the world,
even though the world looks down on me.
Poetry…?
has no boundary of what I can say and do,
my pencil is as free as the air around us,
it drifts across the earth carefree,
not even stopping to find where it is.
Poetry…?
something I can call a home,
and I can visit that home with open arms,
that doesn’t lead to pain and regret,
when it let goes of me.
Poetry…,
There is so much I want to say so much I want to express about poetry,
but all I can say is,
poetry is my friend,
and I am poetry’s friend.