What is it in poems that burn?
Possesses me to twist and turn?
Pulls out the soul to let it soar,
To let it frolic to the core?
Is it the meter, sound, and rhyme?
The intricate weaves of words each line?
The charming couplet weaved with sense,
The playful paradox, soft and tense?
Is it the passion, bare and wild?
The Lust entangled with the child?
The artist's soul put into page,
The torned-up papers drowned in rage?
Is it the after, once it's read?
The moment's message stuck in head?
The "I understand." The "Hmm, indeed."
The conceited wisdom we all feed?
Is it the question beyond the ink,
The philosophies we're bound to think,
The things we'll never view one way,
Which we debate o'er everyday?
Or is it the boldness of the art,
Ripping out the veins from the heart,
And placed in view of public eye,
Either to be noticed or passed by?
The dauntless effort of a soul,
To speak his mind and reach his goal,
Without fear of slander, death, or sin
Is that why poems burn my skin?