A car broke down
And some pieces remain on the street;
Broken
And feeling missing

So as I walk,
I pick some up
And decided to make them part of something again
Where they will thrive
And feel full again

They shall not be "broken" anymore
Nor "trash" or "useless"
Simply because I decided so

I have a much better name for them;
"Art"

The poems.
The old, brown notebook,
Filled with all of my secrets,
Big and small,
Coded into poetry.

What is this thing called poetry?
Is it words on paper,
Lined up nicely,
Rhymes assembled tightly?
Or is it a little deeper than that,
Is poetry a feeling?
A little flutter in your heart,
An echo in the fabric of your soul.
Maybe it's a small candle spark,
Flitting in the dark,
As you sleep peacefully.
So what is this thing we call poetry?