Who is to say what a poem may be, a poem is free,
Tearing itself from the little boxes it's forced into, finding it's true meaning elsewhere.
Finding where it needs to be on this day or that.
Finding the eyes that are looking, seeking, scouring for an answer.
It is the answer to the question it presents by existing, what am I?
I am here.
A poem is a matter of life and death, inconsequential as a speck on the ground,
Raising and destroying worlds, empires, men,
Ideas.
A poem is the dirt, the foundation, the walls, the roof, the lamps, the
People.
A poem is the reason to wake, the reason to stay, the reason to feel, the reason to
Love.
It is...
Everything.