Poetry is the trial and error
of the minds many words.
With it comes a fine understanding of self
and a keen knack for the observation
of everything
including self.
Prose, perhaps, is broken first.
Then maybe rhymed,
thought given to rhythm,
and so
it is
in fact
an a changeling
to accompany progressing thoughts...
It is their vessel.
A free form vessel
for the psyche's little spinnings.
It's, in a sense, your being's blank page
and quill
and it makes use of you,
you the poet,
through this self-reinventing
churning art-creature
and empty canvas.
Poetry enslaves you even
draws you
because your blood is beauty in this
and without it nothing flows from your fingertips.
Poetry is living
breathing
being
mobile
pretty- parasitic.
Poetry becomes you,
a spider sinking it's fangs deep in flesh
and coursing through you
like sweet-release venom.
It becomes an addiction
speaking through you
so that you're not yourself without it,
telling you everything you let it say
(and nothing that you don't)
and whether you hate it or love it
it's turning in the boiling words and waiting for you.
Narcissistic
feeding off the way it sounds in your own mind's-ear
loving every joyful,
painful,
blissful,
hateful syllable to press the page-
Dancing for you,
a charmed snake.
Poetry is the flow of life and evolving thought
expressed as only your own voice can
still-frozen in words
and splattered on paper.

08/08/2003

Author's Note: I see alot of different things when dealing with poetry. This is my own interpretation...

Posted on 08/09/2003
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