Poetry is written.
For some it is forced,
bled from dehydrated veins.
The words are awkward,
looking at each other with shifty eyes.

Poetry is expelled.
For some it tears free,
shattering sternums as it flees from the heart.
The words all scatter,
cacophonous on the wind.

Poetry is crafted.
For some it takes time,
looped together thread by thread.
The words are a set,
glittery and sticky with glue.

Poetry is caught.
For some it is gathered,
alighting in nets as a taste on the air.
The words drift together
like dust in the sun.

Poetry is subdued.
For some it is hidden,
held tight with ribbon and barbed wire.
The words huddle close,
silent, unborn.

Poetry is.
For me it just leaks,
oozing from my pores,
leaving damp fingerprints on the page.
The words stand still and mourn,
then gossip and dance,
refusing directions from me.