What is poetry? To me it is life’s meaning with words. Perhaps somewhere in there is the definition of my heart shutting down poetry. See... Poetry is like a burning candle. While there are readers the candle burns but once they are gone the candle is no more. Could my essence be defined best as a poet? Do I create?

I was once told that there are no new stories and poetry is only a way to hide feelings that could best be told face to face. That all stories have been written. All a writer can hope to do is weave the thread into a new tapestry but its all the same. The real poetry is the bible I was told. And that is all that matters. But I am no maker.

See, the truth is that, the stories I write, the poems I pen are all the stitches sewn into my life. They are all the pains and joys of my heart. I speak now without shame. If I am sensitive, it is only because I hide not from it now. If I write, it is only because I let you see the real me in words. They are the same words from which I hid and weaved into deception? I was not always this way. I believed that strength came from the ability to withhold my tears. I felt I had to keep everyone at a distance. I was sure that any attachments would only result in wounds to my heart. I kept everyone and everything that meant anything to me from knowing my true spirit. Life was safer that way. The path was smoother. There were no stones to pierce my feet. But the path was also lonely. A man walking from out of the desert knows the value of water far more than the man who doesn’t know what it is to be tortured by thirst. I carry that thirst with me so that I savored each sip with love. I took no pleasure in any emotional connection, I simply loved from the heart as I wrote my heart . If that is sensitivity, so be it.

Poetry, it was my life. I know not how to write in iambic-pentameter. I’m not capable of good sonnets. Poetry is like the best of each thrust, the cry of every scream, and the passion of every kiss, a poem I have not the talent to inscribe. Making love with you was a ballad full of smiles and tears. Love was pleasure. To love you was to hear the introduction of a magnificent song only to have the musician forget to play the other half.

I once let my soul entangle so that the distance or the touch of strangers could develop into love.  Then poetry’s candlelight began to turn to darkness when the words, “ do what you feel like...” was muttered in response.  Words will never be the same.  The heart hardens and turns to a normal man’s heart. Feelings go cold. Words no longer speak of love and poetry begins to die slowly.  All else begins to be normal.  Is normal good? Normal is good I was told.  It shall be then.