“This isn’t real poetry–” they quip.
Then, do pray tell, what is?
If poetry be the spontaneous overflow
Of feelings so powerful,
Perhaps we are all just poets unknown,
Trying to find the right metaphors,
The pace and rhythm in life–
Now that I think of it,
Perhaps poetry is life itself.
If poetry is an ocean in a single drop,
Then perhaps I could risk drowning
In my own thoughts just as endless,
The horizon always out of reach–
I could swim until my lungs give out
And still never make it to the other side.
I wonder if my words could do so.
If poetry is hidden emotions and meanings,
Then perhaps my thoughts masquerade so
As verses unwritten and words unsaid,
With depths of an endless abyss.
And should I ever stop dreaming,
My poems I’ll take to my grave–
What they mean to me, no others shall know.
Who is to say what poetry is–
It’s just as abstract as you or me.
For some, my verses are but empty words,
Others shall cherish them in their memory.
Perhaps therein lies its beauty:
You and I may not see eye-to-eye,
But poetry is forever, you see;
Though I may be gone,
My words shall stand the test of time,
And though I may say it,
My words shall never say goodbye.
~© Shubhangi Srinivasan.
Today’s prompt via napowrimo.net is to write a review about something. While my poem isn’t exactly a review, it does tell you my opinion of poems and poetry, so I think it still counts. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Xx