Poetry is hated.
It’s blessed and cursed
For its special ability
To tell the truth-
The precious and the feared.
But as much as it can thrive
Or be persecuted senselessly,
We all know
It shall never be heard
Quite as loud as it demands,
But it shall never perish,
Never see a day
When its purpose isn’t fulfilled.
Poetry, you see, lives too deep within us.
It is the song
Sung in the bottoms of all our hearts;
The language
Spoken in the backs of our minds.
Poetry expresses
Our inexpressible,
And explains
Our inexplicable.
Its simple complexity
Flows through our veins,
And swims I our souls.
Poetry
Is humanity, to its fullest.
Poetry takes the gray of life
And gives it flesh of its own on paper.
Age 15