A small splotch of ink,
Staining pristine white paper,
Describing beauty.

You keep a fire inside you?
I can assure you that's a bad idea.
It hurts? Of course it hurts! It's a fire.
Why hold it in when you can let it out?
A fire within brings pain,
A fire without is knowledge, hope,
It is power and light,
And it is strength.
Let it out, and use it.

Is a poem a rhythmic rhyme?
A singsong tune with a catchy chime?
Is it a work of heart or head?
Is it always meant to be read?

Poems need not be rhythmic,
Don't you see?
Nor need they rhyme.
Point proven.

No work of heart could feel so dead,
But works of head, they aren't warm.
And as for if they are to be read,
We know it is not always the form.

If poems are for money,
Why write for lovers?
If they are for love,
Why write for fame?

No, poems can be none of these things.
None alone, but perhaps a mix,
Some of some, others of the rest,
And so we deduce what poems are:

Poems are clay.

Trees sway above me,
Cold wind stirs dry fallen snow,
As the sun goes down.

You, like myself, are not upright,
You're awake in bed, like every night.
As the night grows old,
the dawn is young, but your time asleep, is yet none.

When your head hits the pillow, thoughts burst forth,
Burying your mind,
Like snow of the North.

So turn off your phone and go to sleep,
Because the snow is only so deep.

Goodbye.