What is Poetry?
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.

When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.

When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.

When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.

When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.

I write because—
A sudden pause.
Why do you write?
There is a reason to it right?

"For pain!" they might say,
"For fame!" cries another.
"For glory!" they might argue
"For defeat." some would bother.

Why do you write?
A student giggled, "For class to be dismissed."
"Oh because you exist." A romantic chanted.

The metaphors you paint vividly,
letters and punctuations you bring closer.
What urges you to bring into existence,
Works of art from bleeding hearts.

Why do you really write?

because I feel, yet they tell me I am numb
because I learn, yet they show me I am dumb
They tell me I should change my mind,
As I am only wasting my time.

I write because...
there's a thousand reasons that I shouldn't but a million more that tells me I should.

I curse the moon
for rising tonight,
the audacity
to shine its sliver of light
across my darkness.

May it be swallowed up
by the night
as I am
by this bed
and this blanket
pulled over my head.

I used to think about you
and hold my pillow
as it molded itself
to my shape.

But no more -
there was too much hope
in that pillow,
the way it fit against me
so perfectly.