Poetry,
What does that truly mean?
I once knew a boy who would write poems and send them to me.
For this boy writing is not just a dream,
If you looked beneath his surface, ink is what he'd bleed,
From the knowledge obtained from the books he likes to read.
When you say he's lost in the silly words,
Well in his mind he's finally free.
And when he smiles, it ignites some kind of fire in me.
His eyes, they mesmerize
A shocking blue more beautiful than the sky.
For him I'd die and for him I write.
I think I finally know what poetry really means,
And I think I understand now what this boy means to me.