Is it the words that flow and rhyme
And dance in rhythm, keeping time?
Or is it a line
That breaks when it wants to,
Not when it’s told;
A thought
Spilling without apology?
Or 5-7-5
Secrets whispered by the wind
Words, though few, sing true?
Perhaps it is found behind coughed petals,
Fourteen lines aligning to pave a stage
Where lovers for love charge into battle
And hearts are found pierced or tangled in rage
Or ten words, though short, a poem for the world
Or the sun spilling gold across the sky
Painting clouds as the sea drowns its light.
To me, poetry is emotion;
Memory,
Ink spilled where the heart leaked
And it is not meant for everyone
Someone told me something I wrote wasn't poetry. Maybe they are right. But it got me thinking: what is poetry? What makes a poem different from words scattered across a page?