It's funny,
How we have
The tendency
To look upon each other
And smother
Our feelings and emotions
Onto a designated
Ragdoll, of sorts
Who, in the aftermath
Desires to dance
To where the end
Will justify
Nothing, even
The lines
Marked throughout her arm
[Which] signify
Body and mind
At a gradual downfall

Demented thoughts
Crashing,
Like a waterfall
During the world's end
It's more than enough
To bring upon
A deluge
Of volatile insanity
That slowly grows
'Till it explodes
And bestows
Only more torture
Until the penultimate
Second, in which
Her dance ends
And she can only
Lie motionless
Breathless
With a crimson line
Marked on her neck
Longer, deeper
Giving birth to
The sadness
Coming from
That realization:
The end
Couldn't possibly justify
The actions she took
Against none other
Than
Herself

A poem, for some, is not fuelled by a single thought.
It is not a sudden emotion that yearns to be converted instantly to wordful waste, it is gradual.
It is a volcano, that builds up until eruption is inevitable.
Poetry, for some, is layer upon layer of thought and feeling and concept, hardened over time,
For some, it is hours of pain and joy and the works of the indescribable puppeteer so desperately fused
into metaphor.
Poetry, for some, lifelong.

But for others, poetry is pure spontaneity. It is unpredictable and unlook-back-able.
For others, poetry is their act of carpe diem, their tip-toe into daily bravery and recklessness.
Their mark that is not a scar.
Poetry, for others, is a single moment picked out of an infinity of them and pulled apart, or pulled together.
It is wonderful and hideous, it is skydiving and socialising and swimming with the sharks.
It is instant, it is adrenaline.
For others, poetry is lack of thought or understanding, just the swift transition from neuron to ink or binary.
Poetry, for others, is short lived.