What Then, Is Poetry?
I read, today
the words of a young poet
A tapestry of thoughts
manipulated
and then expressed
as words
They thought her gifted
I thought her talented
It occurred to me
the poet of any age
of any gift or talent
may write thoughts
meant only for the author
What, then, is poetry
but the shared soul
of another
I thought of my own writings
my adolescent journey
Personal discussion
with my demons
to find my peace
I wrote for her
Or me?
My prose was to vanquish
intolerable pain
to pay homage to my
weakness
I could not
cannot
manipulate thoughts to words
that would give me rise
above the pain
when tears thundered from my eyes
took to my cheeks like eroded earth
and trampled victoriously over me
It occurred to me
we are all poets
when love is kind
or brutally malicious
all the while
we seek comfort from within
by looking out
Paul D. McInerny