Poetry is my thing.
The way the lines snap together like magnets,
Clear and rhythmic,
But also smooth and strangely interweaving.
Twisted together like a ball of colorful yarn.
In these lines that are a syllable away from disorder,
An orderly mess of metaphor and mood
But just chaotic enough to work
I can inject my meaning,
Poetry is my thing, but it’s not for everyone.
This thing is not for everyone, but everyone has something —
Painting, maybe, or drawing,
Singing and songwriting,
Storytelling, or essay-writing, or math, or
Just a good conversation.
Your something is just as good and powerful as another
But no something can ever be anything if you never let it show.