When letters wait
to pounce on a blank page
when thoughts crowd the mind
like frothing **** in a pond
I keep wondering
what poetry is to me
what poetry is to many

Is it not the language of the heart
with no intervention of gray matter
the unlocking of closed vaults
stirring the embers of love, hurt or pain
or giving a free rein to fancy
and flying on magic carpets
to lands forlorn

Sometimes it is
a glide into a sea of tranquillity
an escape from
the humdrum of the world
a flash of liberation
from assaults of pain
a sedative
to numb the turmoil
a sanctuary
for a burdened heart
a window
to look at the world through
a companion
when one is inconsolably alone
a candle flame
in a darkening world
a cloth line
to hang the ***** laundry
a water lily blooming
in the pool of tears
a shelter
in homelessness

sometimes it is a ladder
to climb up to Heavens
an angel on wings
with tidings of hope
peace in a world
braced for war

Poetry, if you are all these
let us fall at your feet
bless us in our art
may we splurge in fancy
and conjure up worlds from words!

our poems may not be light houses
but could be fireflies
on a starless night!

Why is it
That creatives like us
Gain popularity
A following, so to speak,
By churning out love poems
Lines of our past, often failed
Relationships and semi hookups

I know I am guilty of this
You caught me red-handed
But I'm inquiring because
Sometimes, the best food for thought
Is found in poems, not about love
But about failure, success, pity
Growth, maturity, lack there of

Maybe, indulge me
Maybe the best pieces of work
Are outside the realm of human intimacy

i will not

t
e
a
r

myself

a p a r t

to make someone else

WHOLE

Like a rose sheds its pedals,

Or a bird loses its wings,

We are all just parts

Of little broken things.