Poetry has often been used to express feelings.
Or sights, smells, sounds, sins; so much it leaves you reeling.
For as long as anyone knows, we have written these things down.
Writing them makes you remember, or wipes away your frown.
But what do they mean?
What are they for, these delicate muddles of words?
For all that anyone asks is:
What rhyme? How come? Why birds?
It seems as though no one knows what a poem really means.
But that is why we write them!
(You should be more keen.)
Poetry inspires; relaxes; unites; but, everyone is different.
To some it may be about the sky, to others, about one’s lament.
Poetry keeps everyone guessing, confused but begging for more.
That is why we poets like it, and don’t think it’s such a bore.
Poems are ambiguous on purpose, if you haven’t already guessed.
We keep our secrets to ourselves, yet out in the open like a pest.
We write out our truest feelings, knowing that no one will guess.
‘Cause only the writer knows that the poem is about her mess.
These are the reasons why we write so many poems before we die.
They’re ironic, and sad, and so mysterious.
They’re melancholy, and strange, and absolute bliss.
They’re the most honest and purest way of talking.
That is why I write this.