Does the moon watch over the sun or does the sun watch over the moon?
Tiara Sharee
To Whom Remains Voiceless

Poetry is raw, uncensored, romantic language

It holds no count of errors or revises your words

Poetry builds strong bones and character not milk because in due time that spoils

It cannot say “This line can be better if I change this”, because it is just a pawn

Something you place your thoughts upon until they are articulated

Every time someone takes my words and scrambles them I can feel them cut off a tiny piece of my tongue

If I continue to let them no one will hear my voice

But on some days “May I and please” gliding from my mouth romances my mother’s ears

And she calls it poetry

Indeed that is poetry but poetry is also graphic images and loaded words

The ones you kept inside all day for the woman who cut you off at the gas station or the deadbeat dad or the soldier who wasn’t man enough to see behind the Star of David you were human too!

Man sometimes poetry is confusing. There are “no rules” but…

Within that there is structure

And that’s as complete as I can get about it.

I’m not trying to be profound but poetry takes us down memory lane like that song we associate with our love life

Poetry is the cubby in the back of the kindergarten room

It holds our emotional baggage until the end of the day… months and sometimes years

I’m not implying that poems are for “emotional boys and girls” but that they are emotional

At least the good ones

A rant full of logic will never attract me, automatically or magically

Because it fails to realize it needs to be written drastically dramatic

Speaking of logic let me ask you a rhetorical question

Did you know… that poetry is the tribe and the historian?

The only thing to make sense of your private story when you die

The homemade photo quilt that unravels itself to the world

What a powerful thing it is to see a patch if yourself in someone’s poem

 What an honor to be called a poet!

(Source: haveyoumetmsjones)