What is poetry?
Is it sentences that rhyme on the last word every time ?
Is it the rhythm in which a sentence flows off the tongue sprung like the spring from a lighter as the striker breaks free from its wind hood as I stand in the wind with my hood pulled down over me in a failed attempt to bring life to my cigarette that takes life away with every inhaled breath?
Could it be about tragedy, its sad to see that we as a species hold on to possessions like the fake currency we earn through accepted slavery.
Or yet should it be from the heart, whether it rhymes in part, or not.
--
whether the flow is silky smooth like her moans as she grooves to my bedroom moves as I choose to loose that gooey white ooze.
What if IT IS about sex, and the pleasure I get from having her wet screaming ohhh baybee don't stop yet! --
I think poetry needs no label, no guidelines to confine our poetic minds, whether truth or fable, put all that shit on the table, til it collapses and splashes, through the ceiling and lands in the basement. if you can write when your straight wasted, or mentally emancipated, just face it, poetry can not be defined logically, rationally, fashionably, sporadically, mathematically, or lyrically.
Its thought, a series of theories that appeared clearly as imaginality raced away to places we wish we could stay, away from all the bullshit of life... wait, that sounds about right, poetry is life. Inspirational heights thats heard by blind eyes and seen through def ears, its tears from too many crisp beers, or sheers to wrists that won't cut through the boo hoo blues of a lost love, its a missed hug, a dud grenade that saved the unshaved face of a soldier so he could shoulder the weight of our enemies hate with less on his plate than the politician who debates his fate. Its a moment jotted down hastily, its a second wasted angrily over an infinitesimal point that broke the joint through infidelity. Its The melody of marriage kept safe in a babies carriage, its grudges buried, its fairy's and dust, its the thrust of lust, its.. its... its just a must. it lacks luster, its Dijon fucking mustard, its absurd words strung together like a flock of unconcerned birds, its vulgarities thrown from lips like spit, its beautiful music, its strange and bewildered, its crazy unfiltered, its a play on words from voices unheard, its the death of my mother, the death of her brothers, my best friend, and many others.
Its a race through creativity, an escape from lifes captivity, its the brevity of a moment on stage, a release from all the rage, poetry... its just ink on a page
