Is it still poetry if I put my hands to paper and words spill out?
Cascading like rivers with no due course
Is it still poetry if I don't know what I'm saying?
Only that the words forming in front of me are mine alone
Is it still poetry if I cry while I'm writing it?
Tears falling into the page and blooming new phrases, like spring flowers

Is it still poetry if the whole world sees me from the inside, out?
Is it still poetry if I lose myself writing it?
Is it still poetry if they cannot find me?