It is a window into the deepest, most intimate shadows of ones mind.
It reveals their happy place,
And also their darkest fears.
It strips one down completely
Leaving them bare, naked, vulnerable
For all to see.
And yet it clothes them with armour,
And provides them with a weapon.
Stringing intricate wording into eloquent sentences, and leaving the reader bereft and out of air.
It allows one to alleviate the cumbersome load that emotions bring to them,
And brings to light the most beautiful and mundane life cycles.
It allows people to show appreciation for things that are usually taken granted for,
Like the whisper of gossamer wings of a brown moth,
Or the way your feet tingle when you stand for the first time in the morning.
It allows the child to make sense out of nonsense, and the elder to make nonsense out of clarity.
It provides an outlet and security blanket for the angst-ridden teen,
Who is stuck at home feeling anger at the world.
It enables the silent to have a voice,
And the blind to see rich color.
It allows people to come together, To have an open mind, to see what others see in the way they see it.
Angry or sad, happy or guilty,
Poetry is the one way we all communicate the same thing.
And it is just this:
I am human, I write out of necessity.