It's not blank verse,

 Free verse, 

 Or iambic pentameter 

 

               It's just poetry 

 

 It is fresh and free, 

 Flowing and beautiful 

 

               It's just poetry 

 

 There are no limits 

 To the depth it exhibits 

 

               It's just poetry 

 

 And that's why I love it 

 

 It's not something 

 You can just force; 

 Not something 

 One can work at 

 For it to become 

 True perfection 

 

 No, it is a reflection 

 Of inside, 

 The dark secrets 

 That we hide 

 And cannot, 

 By any other means, 

 Express 

 

 It is the burning 

 Sensation, 

 A mind numbing

 Dedication

 To pouring out 

 One's soul

 In words 

 When no other medium 

 Will suffice 

 

 It is the way we live and we die, 

 Murdering and marrying  

 All that we cannot;

 Laying down our burdens, 

 Pains and problems 

 On staggered shelves to rot 

 

               It's just poetry 

 

 It is  freedom from 

 The constraints 

 Of society and propriety,

 The weights of our 

 Own shame and disdain, 

 Self-hatred and self harm, 

 From mutilating 

 Our own arms 

 

 It is words 

 That are so powerful 

 They can move mountains 

 And so swift and sly

 They can change minds;

 Words that spur romance

 Or prompt us to dance 

 Through rhyming and lively tone

 

 It is the works that 

 Bury themselves in our hearts 

 And tear their way through 

 Our minds

 Refusing to let us 

 Do anything 

 But perceive and ponder 

 

 But the best kind

 Strips us right down 

 To the core 

 And allows us 

 To simply exist 

 In the silence, 

 In the absence 

 Of sorrows, trials 

 And joys;

 We can simply exist 

 

               Yet it's just poetry

 

 Yes, and that's why I write it