Sometimes, we need not think of something to write;
Yet, we write on something we think;
If no one hears our whispering thoughts;
Someone may read our whimpering words;
At least, in the end…
Someone will know and feel our heart beat.
From the moving letters across the page’s street;
To the halts at every traffic light of punctuation;
Our duty is to dispatch more than words across.
It could be mild.
It could be violent.
It could be just a feeling..
Seeking pores of expression.
Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be what you like;
It’s the aesthetic that still counts;
And just like Life…
Poetry can hardly be confined
In your attempts to make it defined
It is different things to different people;
Yet, the ink, thoughts, and words
Are still the basic tools of this art of ours.