A war against one's self.
An unwinnable sequence of battles for most.
One has a side of good, but also a side of evil.
For there cannot be light, without the darkness.
In order for good to defeat evil,
One must build emotional barriers.
Walls made up of the purity and happiness of compassion and friendship,
Doing their best to contain and hold the cold lost hopes and dreams,
And prevent the pity and depression from leaking out.
The darkness that manages to escape,
Then invades the mind.
It becomes a new form of cancer,
Spreading through every crevice and every cell,
Until one's self being becomes infected and imprisoned by corrupted ideas.
Yet somehow,
Even though there is an army of diseased shadows,
There remains one illuminated cell.
One thought.
One idea.
One word.
Poetry.
The antidote for the poisonous toxicity in the vicinity of one's very reason of thought.
The extravagant essence of emotion.
It spreads and enlightens the depression and anxiety that captivates the mind and heart.
As it travels,
It mutates each cell into the next word of a perfect and pure line of its next portion of poetry.
Each cured organ becomes a spectacular stanza,
Becoming freed from the restricting chains composed of complications.
And when the soul becomes rinsed with repetition and rhyme,
The body itself becomes a sculpture made of scripture and scribbles,
Molded by the hands of love and compassion,
In the most amazing of fashion.
The perplexing, awe-inspiring prescription of poetry,
Cleanses and cures the body from the cancerous complexities and overwhelming obscurities which previously occupied the matter of heart and mind.
And leaves one breathing out line after line of poetry,
For their bloodstream now flows with fresh and meaningful literacy.
Poetry is the rhythm that makes our hearts beat faster and faster,
Because every beat feeds the fire that burns inside which keeps you going and pushing through every obstacle that hits you in life.
Because poetry IS LIFE.
Poetry starts with one cell,
Then multiplies into millions and millions of new cells which hold every new word we learn and stanza we read.
So that every poem we write,
Imprints itself in our bodies at night.
Simile and hyperbole become habits,
Metaphor and assonance become part of us,
Personification and alliteration are what defines us.
Words are the fuel for the flame of poetry that allows us to survive.
And as long as the fire remains strong,
The disease will burn to a crisp,
And blow away with ones next breath in ashes.
The darkness within will wither to a whisper,
Too weak to fight the light.
But in desperate times in life,
The suffering and agony will grow once more,
Coming back stronger than the time before.
Even though there may be darkness in the heart,
Pain and sadness constantly clashing against the walls,
There will always be a light,
No matter how massive or minuscule it may be.
It may start with a simple mellow glow,
But it will increase to a gleaming beacon of hope,
And shine one's way to the door which leads to life.
