The Meaning of…

I’m going to accept that maybe it never dries. The words just speak on and on and effect emotions as long as they exist. I hear you ask me what this is, and the answer leaks from my lips like poetry.

Talking to other poets is amazing. Creative people overall have a sort of flair to them that they exude regardless of if you communicate in person or online. I love the connection. The fact that they are there if only to inspire me and remind me why it is important to create, to live, to love, to laugh… to just be.

I’m generally cold and aloof. I don’t feel things the way other people do and when I do feel it’s all at once, headfirst cannon-balling into a pit of hopefully not despair. This is when my pen takes over. I scribble on page after page, ink drying fast, words lasting forever? For it was created, hence it is infinite, it is powerful, it is real and true and touching; if only just for me.

I love struggling with the analysis. The piecing together of the syllables that represent a person, for I get to know a little portion of you if only for 3 minutes. Poetry is damning and beautiful and emotional and careful and inclusive. Poetry is that teardrop escaping; that silenced shout and stifled moan. Poetry is modern day miracles, the synapse between belief and non-belief. It is choice and freedom and expression and purpose filling a void which exists even if no one hears the tree falling in the forest.

I’m going to accept that maybe it never dries. The words just speak on and on and effect emotions as long as they exist. I’m going to accept that maybe this is it. This is how we change the world. This is both armor and weapon. Offense and defense. War and peace. This is it, and even in silence it speaks.

Twenty-five down, twenty-seven to go…

Essay25

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