I indulge myself in poetry, when i am in pain.
It helps to cushion the fatal blows.
Its my last resort,
when everything has failed.
When felt perplexed,
I rush to conjure another verse,
to purge fuzziness from my head.
It is a remedy for a broken soul.
I breathe with poetry.
I heal with it.

I am not afraid that people can hurt,
that love may conceal a terrible revelation,
that truth has no sense,
that reason may not apply sometimes,
so i keep poems by my side,
to kindle the feelings inside,
to save the humor for the darkest nights.

Words are my clouds,
to soar in the sky,
to build castles of imagination,
to play with shapes,
to chase shadows,
to flicker the lights.

This craft is old as human spirit.
It is pure and clear as mountain creek,
a mysterious trait in our hearts.
Perhaps, it is a nonsense
of feeling lonesome,
an uncanny substance
with no form and meaning
or alluring thought for feeble minds.
I can't tell for sure.
But it is a hallmark of all times.