With poetry--

A lonely woman
can write about her lover
on valentine's day.
She can describe his most endearing traits
line upon line upon line--
as if...he existed.

A young girl
can share her deepest erotic thoughts,
demonstrating an ability
to take the reader's hand
and guide them with her words,
leaving them satiated--
but only
if she's skilled enough.

For those depressed
and those searching
to release their pain--
It's a bloodletting.

They've been raped,
they've been bullied,
ignored and even wounded.
The dark side held them too long.

They need you to listen
or simply just notice they're alive.
They may wonder if writing
is all a fruitless endeavor
when their written cries for help
go unnoticed.

But behind poetry's walls...

A man can offer us a character,
from a fictitious town
that resembles trees, sidewalks,
roads and even paths
of his own treasured youth.

An adolescent can share a broken heart
with a seemingly invisible world.
He/she can release all the angst,
tear by tear,
until the poem has ended--
for now.

Poetry is a haven
for ideas, rants, memories or thoughts
that otherwise would go unheard by most.
The family simply wouldn't understand.

It is a platform
for those skilled or unskilled;
for those confident
and those apprehensive;
for those that standout
and those whose computer
is their only escape.

Some here,
have painstakingly learned
poetry has its elements:
meter, rhyme, metaphor, and more.
As for others,
form, cadence, line breaks...
are all unimportant.

The prolific and the obscene;
those with morals
and those without;
religious; atheists...
they're all involved.

People have left poetry
for greener pastures,
only to re-emerge
days, weeks, or even years later
when the writer needed another ear
to listen to all he/she wanted to say.

It is a source of frustration,
joy and confusion,
all mentioned into one place.

It is your yesteryear, your today,
and all your tomorrows.

It's a percentage of your life,
your time and your thoughts.
It consists of creation
and destruction.

It's a statement; it's a confession.
It's a voice that understands;
It's a disciplinarian that doesn't.
It's a welcome sign.
It's a keep out sign.
It's a microcosm of continents
and far off cultures.
It's a ghost from the past.
It's a community.
It's a small town.
It's a lyrical lagoon.

It's you...it's me...it's us
sailing within
our own private harbor.

And we call it

POETRY.

forandy:
With poetry--

A lonely woman
can write about her lover
on valentine's day.
She can describe his most endearing traits
line upon line upon line--
as if...he existed.

Hello Forandy. I like this verse. It draws a pretty good emotional response as a short, stand-alone poem. If it had appeared anywhere but at the top of your rather lengthy effort I would probably have never gotten to it. This is because I find the rest of the poem quite flat. Large portions read like an ordinary speech, without any of the movement and music of poetry. I would like to see you try your hand on more one-piece poems like the above. I'm sure you could make more in that mold if you put your mind to it.

Yossarian:


Hello Forandy. I like this verse. It draws a pretty good emotional response as a short, stand-alone poem. If it had appeared anywhere but at the top of your rather lengthy effort I would probably have never gotten to it. This is because I find the rest of the poem quite flat. Large portions read like an ordinary speech, without any of the movement and music of poetry. I would like to see you try your hand on more one-piece poems like the above. I'm sure you could make more in that mold if you put your mind to it.

Thanks much for the advice, I would see to that