Poetry, To Me |
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Poetry to me
Is the
View from eagle's eyes hovering,
A third party
With foreign insight.
Poetry to me
Is the exact moment
In the time-space continuum,
When two strangers' glances
Meet
And everlasting love is manifested
Between unsuspecting souls.
But it's also that one second too late
When that glance could have
Taken place,
But just missed...
Poetry to me,
Is mended dreams unseen.
Soaking sun on warm benches
While dawns dew still drips.
It's the universe's drying tears
Dripping
From tips
Of trees' veins.
It's the fiery combustion
Of organs pumping
Funeral music
As a sign of new life.
It's the smash of a hammer,
Twists of screws
And sparks of saws
That sprout bridges,
Both tangible and those that link
Unexplored imagined worlds
As they were meant to be.
Poetry to me
Is watching 'hood kids breakdance
on J trains,
Right next to the
Homeless, hungry and heartbroken
And the inner battle
Of who to give your dollar to.
Or do I need a coffee?
Poetry to me
Is the impact of earthquakes in Haiti and Chile,
Typhoons in Thailand
And
Civil War's
Somalian refugees
Running
When they hit home,
And coax crooked necks,
Bent from burdens
Of past pain.
Poetry is the same
Flicker of feeling
That just passes by,
Speeding out of focus
Unnoticed.
Poetry to me
Is malintentions
In your direction
That should have stopped
But couldn't see,
But didn't realize
The drops of blood that
Sculpted your history.
Did you ever feel your stomach drop
In twisted knots
When a certain comment
Hits that spot
Where personal guilt festers?
This is poetry.
The white shimmer
Glimmering in an iris
That conveys your mood,
This is poetry.
Poetry to me
Is crowded city streets
Filled with stories,
Lined with remorse
Like my notebook.
Imagery cast from metaphors,
Unlocked doors,
Lured
To scrutiny
Like Perseus to Andromeda
Poetry to me
Is everywhere.
Is the
View from eagle's eyes hovering,
A third party
With foreign insight.
Poetry to me
Is the exact moment
In the time-space continuum,
When two strangers' glances
Meet
And everlasting love is manifested
Between unsuspecting souls.
But it's also that one second too late
When that glance could have
Taken place,
But just missed...
Poetry to me,
Is mended dreams unseen.
Soaking sun on warm benches
While dawns dew still drips.
It's the universe's drying tears
Dripping
From tips
Of trees' veins.
It's the fiery combustion
Of organs pumping
Funeral music
As a sign of new life.
It's the smash of a hammer,
Twists of screws
And sparks of saws
That sprout bridges,
Both tangible and those that link
Unexplored imagined worlds
As they were meant to be.
Poetry to me
Is watching 'hood kids breakdance
on J trains,
Right next to the
Homeless, hungry and heartbroken
And the inner battle
Of who to give your dollar to.
Or do I need a coffee?
Poetry to me
Is the impact of earthquakes in Haiti and Chile,
Typhoons in Thailand
And
Civil War's
Somalian refugees
Running
When they hit home,
And coax crooked necks,
Bent from burdens
Of past pain.
Poetry is the same
Flicker of feeling
That just passes by,
Speeding out of focus
Unnoticed.
Poetry to me
Is malintentions
In your direction
That should have stopped
But couldn't see,
But didn't realize
The drops of blood that
Sculpted your history.
Did you ever feel your stomach drop
In twisted knots
When a certain comment
Hits that spot
Where personal guilt festers?
This is poetry.
The white shimmer
Glimmering in an iris
That conveys your mood,
This is poetry.
Poetry to me
Is crowded city streets
Filled with stories,
Lined with remorse
Like my notebook.
Imagery cast from metaphors,
Unlocked doors,
Lured
To scrutiny
Like Perseus to Andromeda
Poetry to me
Is everywhere.
Other recommended poems based on this one: WORDS ARE WEAPONS | SHIT & RAINBOWS | STRENGTH
Need help writing slam poetry? Check out some posts, blogs and articles here
Need help writing slam poetry? Check out some posts, blogs and articles here