They ask, “what is poetry?” I’d give them a bowl of spaghetti. Naturally they’re taken aback. No surprise about that
Still I’d tell them,
“Here, take a bowl of my tiny soul. If you look into it well enough You would know that it’s not just a mush of twenty-six alphabets See, I took the sticky dough that composes my mind And shoved it through the tiny holes I call standards And carefully pulled out the strands of words.
I’d tell them,
“Then I would pour the red sauce, my personal favorite, That I cooked up with my blood and tears. If you taste them correctly, a voice will sneak into your minds And speak their reality. Although it may hurt, that way you will see. That’s my poetry.”
I would tell them, but I think they weren’t listening because They would just drink up the whole thing like hungry savages. And I would quietly stand there in awe Because they wouldn’t understand.
It's my first upload, so please judge tenderly of me. Thanks!