So, in my mockery of an english class, we were told we had to write a poem, 10 lines, about what poetry is.
What's further, we had to post it in a public forum, and let our classmates finish the poem by writing 5 more lines in our style.
While the assignment is BEYOND stupid, I was fairly satisfied with the result. (Minus the 5 lines by someone else, I haven't gotten any of those yet.)
The tip of the pen brushes the vast field of paper, black water flowing from the spout
making puddles of letterswordssentencesparagraphsnovelsthoughtsideasloverevolution.
Each word a brushstroke on an imagined canvas, seen differently by all,
because each soul speaks a different language with the same words trying desperately to
get a message out to somebody who will listenreadhearcarethinkponderchangetheworld.
In the desperate search for meaning in this maelstrom we call life, using this arbitrary
system of communication that we've been taught since birth, wordspunctuationsyntax
giving form to the formless forces inside, that which we all know but cannot express
correctly in any form, no matter how hard we try, but try we must because that's what life
is: the the attempt to make something usefulbeautifulmeaningful with limited resources.
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