Poetry is not a collection of words but the thoughtful interactions of symbols with of our lives. Poetry is in our minds, and in our perspectives. Poetry can bring tears to the eyes of a million people or it can bring nothing, like the repetition of stories told, cyclic experiences brought upon by the very nature of time. Time that shows no mercy on thoughts or feelings. Poetry is the way you look at someone and see something unique each time.

Poetry is useful. Poetry is the blah, in blah, blah, blah. Poetry is an anchor, dragging reality between the layers of comprehension. Poetry is playful, nudging a happy something from somewhere to someplace.

Speaking with numb tongues too afraid to feel the truth. The truth that emotions bring us back to humanity. From fetus to ashes we shutter with the vibrations of ideas to powerful to be expressed any other way than through poetry. And to this I say, roses are red... but not all. Poetry is the touch that moves through the air, never to connect, never to stop changing, never to fulfill its goal. An object so objective it makes subjectivity it's subject. Self inflicting, conscious and always yearning, poetry will prevail. Surviving one last moment in anything but a collection of words.

But it's over. Poetry has ended. Poetry has betrayed me. Poetry has left my body, my mind, my nothingness. Empty but never really anything before. A shallow feeling of indifference. Poetry has experienced itself. Poetry has withdrawn from the world and seen the way we are. Poetry does not care, a human, a dog, a bear. Ears listen the same, without judgment, without shame. The mind give taste to the flavor of poetic sense. One value as undetermined as the next. Speaking in terms of understandability.

Poetry is something I'm not sure about. Should I keep it or leave it behind? My perspective tells me that I may never make up my mind.