Poetry,
not just words,
but a lens through which the world is seen.
Unlucky are those who squint their brows
when the tender voice of poetry speaks.
But lucky,
lucky are the poets,
who do not just write,
but understand.
They take the plainest thought
and shape it into something soft and lasting,
quiet beauty, often overlooked.
Look back at childhood.
Some call it a stage,
a phase of growth,
a fleeting moment.
But the poet?
The poet sees more.
They name it
a warm, wild bloom,
an age when little hearts
carried dreams too bold for fear to tame.
A time when the highest goal
was a smile and someone to share the day with,
someone to call a friend.
A time not marked by clocks,
but by laughter,
endless and true.
And if tears ever came,
they came not from pain,
but from being made to sleep,
pulled away from the thrill
of one more laugh.
The poet doesn’t call them
“childhood days.”
They call them
the giggle-stained days,
the butterfly-chasing moments,
when joy was loud
and love was simple.
Isn’t this beautiful?
Isn’t this poetry?