A poem is flowing liquid
Ready to take on the form of any mold you give it
It fills up the corners and curves
Of any thoughts you wish to preserve

A poem is water,
ready to put out the fires
Of burning tears
And hidden fears

But it is also true
When I say a poem is gasoline
Because it ignites your mind
And all the thoughts it may hold
It burns a hole
through weary souls
And it lets the love and hate
Flow out of golden, sometimes broken gates