Sometimes I'll read great literature and think:
that perhaps, poetry is a theatrical
(but necessary) byproduct
of our excess emotion—
created by broken people
who simply feel too much,
in too little of a space.
From the largest and grandest of stanzas
to the petite one-liners,
we pour our feelings into words
and our words into emotion,
and give them the context
to take on a brand new meaning.
We  adorn our anguish in sweet, silken lines,
our passion in soft, breathy rhymes;
our anger shows in scribbles
and taut similes,
our joy in the personification
of the very things we wish
could come alive.
From all corners of all nations we grow
knowing, quite profoundly,
that our feelings are meant to mean something:
Poetry is not tissue in our lives
to be used and tossed away;
rather, poems mark the seasons of ourselves
that are to be remembered and enjoyed.
Written on notepads and parchment,
from wide open spaces to
that dingy apartment,
our words lie in wait for us
so that at our lowest point,
our words may help remind us
to be *human