Poetry, as I perceive it,
And no offence, alright;
Is not this:
Writing as I would speak to someone
Only stacking the lines one on top of the other
Instead of next to it, in a paragraph.
If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status,
No matter how great,
This is not my poetry.

What poetry is
The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail
The crickets over the careful cat’s march
And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.

In the distance,
a speck of green and blue

and grey pulls me closer
the curious fires on me and it
spread.

I land on the speck
Of green and blue

and grey
and the people
greet me
with a stretched hole on top of their bodies.
As if it is being pulled
by some other thing

I ask them about the speck
of green and blue

and grey
they say
you can do as you may
lay on the bay
all day
and watch the stars play.

These people of beige and brown

and grey
listen to my story of my speck
and they reject
Their falsehoods of fantasy lives
glare In front of them.

Like the lights from my ship.

I watch the people of beige and brown and grey
On their speck of green and blue and grey
And wonder in sympathy.

By this logic,
**** is also beautiful.
A stunning mixture,
Of every color that entered your mouth
Of every food you eventually let out.

But more seriously,

Maybe they thought their eyes were plain,
Because they’re a realist?
Brown eyes are the most common eye color on Earth.
Clocking in at 55%.

“But let’s compare their aesthetic traits,
To something more unique,
In order to give the impression,
That we are deep!”

“Oh!
I know!
Mahogany!
Because wood is brown!”

Uhg.

I get it’s about perspective.
You want to appear to see something in them
That they don’t see in themselves.
To make them feel special.
And I’m sure they’ll like the poem.
And I’m sure other people will too.
And no one will think twice, or criticize you.

But your poem is boring.
And average at best.
Just like this rhyming scheme,
I use for the rest,

of my poem.

But that’s okay.
Practice’ll make perfect.
Maybe next time, write about the person?
And not just their eyes.
The relationship you want to express, is why their eyes are special.
Emphasis on “their.”
And why they make them special.
Emphasis on “they.”
Stop writing generic poems that fit everyone.
Write for the person whose eyes you lose yourself in.

I met a girl in high school.
She had brown eyes, with little specks.
As if genetics graced her with an aesthetic, that befit her the best.
She sailed from topic to topic,
Gracefully.
While I was lost in the islands in her eyes,
that cartographed the geography my mind began to see.

I’m glad her eyes did her justice,
Because her name didn’t.
Two syllables,
the latter a misspelling of coal:
Hands black after holding,
Soot filled lungs after smelling,
Bad kids’ reward for insolence.
She’s nothing close to that since,
She’s herself;
A country woman from a little town no one talks about.

We’d talk for hours.
We always could.
Until that bell rang,
And she stood,
up to leave.

They can't find advice
in the skies
or solace
in the woods
anymore,
for society has closed it off.