Emily, you know poems are not just written words. They are the soft taps of reassurance for everyone That its okay to be imperfect, unique and misunderstood. They are the gate way of writer's soul Sprinkling confetti for prismatic emotions Conspicuously soothing to the one who deciphers Annoyingly Abstruse for the Apathetic ones These phrases of metaphors speak pure love Shimmering profundity through writer's heart Like hymns of life are synced with words Not essays nor stories but concise perfection Reconciliation of memories and experiences Rapture releases as ink is spilled on paper Pain, glory, bliss, anguish, betrayals, affection, All dancing at once In allegories of rhymes Frivolously gleaming with all sorts of imaginations Poetry can't be created by every creature, No other than few rare sapiens can know its worth Emily its a gateway to unbridled passion Every inch on paper brings millions of thoughts You see it as lifeless carcass with no hope But for me its a constant symphony of compassion Unfeigned lines with satirical vibes Always searching for treasure in musings and life To bloom with creation as our heart sings Poetry is prominent reason to be alive indeed Its splendid, sorrowful, appeasing, chaotic, delightful, Whimsical, wicked or anything a writer wants it to be Anything his/her demons and angels respite within Allowing them to escape mundane rhythms, And incarnate heartfelt emotions through words
To solicit a poet/poetess why do you write poetry Is like asking them why are you alive or why do you breathe? There's no meaning until you see that it is a part of my divine feelings that I've bled so dearly just to feel free.