There is something special about poetry. Something about how there are line breaks and deliberate diction that draws your senses into something melancholy. The way it can be purely fiction or nothing but the truth and it’s all up for interpretation by someone who stumbles upon it scribbled on a napkin in a nearby nook of a bookstore. How when you complete a poem that you’re particularly proud of, its satisfying and provides a sense of purpose. But the hardest part about poetry, is sharing a selection you love, with someone else. The nervous feeling as they read it, and the mounting disappointment as you realize, that the work you’re so in love with doesn’t connect with their pleasure centers as it does with yours. Don’t let this be discouraging. For I believe that if you love something, then it doesn’t matter if no one else does. Because if it makes you happy, that’s all that ever matters. And if a poem comes from your soul not everyone is going to love it, but maybe you’ll find someone who does, and you’ll be able to talk about all of the things that make a poem special, and the way there are line breaks and deliberate diction that draws your senses into something melancholy. And you can fall into circular patterns with someone who gets what it feels like to have your poetry appreciated.