There’s something interesting to notice
When one shares their poems
Out there
For one and all to see

There are certain patterns
Certain people

That read certain poetry

When I write short, sweet, to the point
Two lines
Or three

Certain people flock

When I write long
With depth, almost like a story

Others stalk

Then when I let out my inner cynic,
Try something new
Rant out my views

I get a whole nother crowd all together
Comprising sometimes, those from the former two as well

Some go for depressing,
Trying to find someone who matches
Their own soulful nature

Others would rather settle
For some lighthearted fun

And still yet more
Would choose something else

And I wonder how do you choose
How do you pick amongst the multitudes?
Do you even care?
Or is it what’s right in front of your eyes?

Perhaps it’s based on what you like to write?
What you’d like to do?
What you’d like to be?
Who you’d like to be?

Is there even an answer key?
Is there ever?

The ocean –
consists of a large mass of water.

It’s Salt Water.

Swallow and it slowly eats away at your sanity.

It’s Deadly.

To an open wound – a scrape, a cut – it does miracles.

It Purifies –

it’s Terrifying.

The power to destroy,
the power to cleanse.

A medicine?
A poison?

Who cares…

To heal memories troubling hearts and skin.
To free even the most complicated of minds.

To steal lives in instant, violent ways.
To steal everything you love right from your hands.

It's Cruel.

It's Beautiful.

his mind is sweet  
it tastes like  
wine and poetry  
fire and history  

his soul is something  
else entirely  
wild, yet sweet still  
it could build or ****