I think poetry is for the dependent
Those who can't strive a day without
Constant writing, perpetual recording, meticulous brushstrokes
On the painting of a vibrant story
Told through heavy language or light yet elegant babble

Or perhaps it's truly for the lost
Those lacerated and devastated
By life's inevitable nature,
The deviously maleficent,
Or even their own bewildered selves.

Still, I look back
At the days of unbecoming
Horrible ignorance and unprecedented knowledge
Proverbial wisdom and undiscerning youthfulness...
When life was a default wonder.

Poetry had not been my guide
Without a pillar I trudged on.
Yet! What a horrific period of life!
Oh, if only then I had the mystical treasure
Of which I certainly possess now

I think poetry is for all who appreciate it--
If not, then those who take from it,
The insecure, shameful, resentful, narcissistic, far off, logical, illogical, confounded, missing, gothic, dying, feral, lonely, creative, incapable, hopeful, and dead
It's our universal language
In times of hope or death