Why Poetry?
written by: SmithaV
@SmithaVishwana4
Why poetry?
You ask me.
‘Why not prose?’
Why do the words tumble in verses?
Why not in passages?
You ask me.
‘The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’
It’s unknown to me.
Why Shakespeare and Wordsworth?
You ask me
Why not Dickens and Stevenson?
Why Shelly and Frost?
Why not Wilde and Bronte?
You ask me.
‘The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’
It’s unknown to me.
I write what I write, what feels right.
Things that I sight,
That which make me light.
Of blooming flowers, children’s laughter, birds in flight
the sun, the stars, and the moon at night
About all that’s in between black and white.
I call it love; you call it poetry.
Why? It’s unknown to me.
I write the things that I dare tell nobody.
Not a soul, not even me.
I scribble it all in a diary.
Pain, heartbreak, failure, fantasy
Anger, betrayal, envy.
I shed the baggage I carry.
And I no longer feel heavy.
I call it confession, you call it poetry-
Why? It’s unknown to me.
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