What is poetry? I know not. I’m a mere amateur trying to be someone. Mind you, not like someone. Poetry, to me is elusive. I know about poetry just as much a new-born knows about the wide vast world. It’s an ocean to me, and I try swimming across, trying to reach somewhere. With words as my oars, I beat the waves.
What is poetry? I know not. I merely build castles of thought, words upon words. The bleak ones collapse, I sulk at the debris. Some laugh at me, mock me, and I’m lost in despair. Some manage to stay put, and give me hope. Poetry is mystery, and I’m a hopeless gumshoe.
What is poetry? I know not. I merely paint, draw, and write. With smiles, sometimes sobs, the canvas is filled with pieces of me, hidden in the sketches, between the letters. Poetry is like love; unconditional, carefree. I know not what’s good and what’s not. I know no rules, no styles. I bleed in my heart’s colours.
What is poetry? I know not. I merely try. When I crumble, poetry holds me on. The invisible bunch of words on the blank page in front of me, beckons me, to come drape them, with my nascent randomness. I stow the shy feeling as they invite me as their own. Frost, Cummings, Whitman, and Poe, they don’t belittle me anymore.
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