Poetry asks a lot of questions
Makes few definitive statements
Delves into a multitude of perspectives
And tends to provide zero answers

Poetry is a process, a ritual
of reflection and boundless purging
A pathway to self healing, soul searching
A noble attempt at illumination

Writing isn’t inherent or instinctual
Even if we feel like it comes naturally
Poetry is a skill, a practice, an artform
A discipline in refining the chaos of reason

Poetry is a secret, a sneak-peek into the mind
It lays the heart open on the chopping block
Watching it beat, and drawing a picture of obscurity
To call itself a bold, unprecedented master of the arts

Poetry is a contradiction, both virtue and vice
Woven by the laureate and the common man alike
Poetry lives and dies by human existence, by being
Tethered to the struggles and victories of mankind

Photo provided by: unsplash-logoLiana Mikah