They Call it Poetry

blood ink

They call it poetry,

this tracing the shape of old wounds

with a pen.

When the voice cracks,

the tears start to flow

and the soul comes pouring out.

Everyone feels that hurt like it’s their own.

Because it is.

They call it poetry,

when your brain is on fire with an idea;

when it must be written,

when you have no choice.

When writing it makes you feel more alive

than ever before.

When reading it makes you feel

“Oh yes! This is it. This is it!

I’m not alone.”

They call it poetry,

when a human voice becomes a vessel,

swift and strong,

to carry you across some stormy sea;

when a verse becomes a hand

held out to all mankind, beckoning;

Come, this way. Follow me,

I have something to show you.

They call it poetry,

when the syllables are woven together

with a rhythm and cadence

that turns speech into music;

a lyrical symphony that ebbs and flows

and swells into ecstatic crescendos

and you are entranced, transported,

swept away…

They call it poetry,

when words can cut through the fabric

of time and space

and carve out a quiet place

in the center of the universe

where we can sit together

with the dreamers and mystics from every generation

and pass around the sacred wine.

They call it poetry,

these wildflowers that bloom upon the tongue.

This bountiful garden in the heart,

where grief and sorrow, hope and love,

tears and laughter, tenderness and courage

are all blossoming and bearing fruit.

Come with me, my friends.

Come inside.

I have something incredible to show you…

~ Ben

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