Metapoetry

This is a poem about poetry–

A metapoem, if you will.

Since it’s something about its own genre, it seems to fit the bill.

 

I’m not the best thing since sliced bread

But I know a thing or two.

When poetry comes as easily as breathing,

It’s something you cannot help but do.

So I write and I write and in my head I’m always rhyming

And I tell myself I’m going to branch out but I can’t stop feeling the timing

 

Like in Hairspray, you can’t stop the beat

Once I start beating the drum in my head

Because the girl with dancing feet

Has feet on her fingers that often write instead

 

And so I go and I go until I can’t keep going anymore

except that that’s actually not even true because I could keep going for forever and always, then more.

There are some things I can say in poetry, that I just can’t say in words.
Especially when I’m in pain because poetic rhetoric embraces my hurt.

There are some things I can do in poetry, that I just can’t do in real life.
I can cut deep into the soul with language, without blugeoning you with my knife.

In poetry I just go– Even if I wanted to stop it, I couldn’t.
In the rest of life, I wait, deciding in everything if I should or shouldn’t.

In poetry I don’t have to be right.
I don’t have to be wrong.
I don’t have to be anything.

In poetry I can just be who I am–
I am everything and nothing.

Sometimes the poems are about myself,
Sometimes they are a story,
Sometimes they are my imaginations of wealth
Sometimes they are manifestations of glory

Often times, however, poetry embraces my broken.
It shines a light on the dark places that many like to leave unspoken.

Poetry is strange haven for me,
but a safe one, yes indeed.

Poetry has always been there,
When I was most in need.

 

Unlike the people who seem to come and go [and commit, but then leave again.]
Poetry is here, whether I want it or not. It’s not this season’s fashion trend.

Even when I do not try,
Rhyming words come out of my mouth.
They flow through my fingers,
They race through my head,
and there’s no way for them not to come out.

Poetry is inside of me, and it shows through the way that I live.
This life is a piece of poetry, asking us all what we’re willing to give.

I’m not all that and a bag of chips, or even remotely “all that”

But no matter what, I’ll keep writing poetry because, to me, it’s much like swinging a bat.

It’s swinging at the baseball of life– that fastball that breaks 90 miles per hour.

And deciding that you’ll fight to stay in the game, even if you’re on the field in April showers.

This fight includes hitting tons of foul balls and sometimes striking out.

In tandem with the line-drives and homeruns whichΒ show you what life is about.

 

In poetry I experience the ups and the downs

As I dance through the rollercoaster of my soul

In poetry I embrace every tear and every frown,

and let them remind me that every smile represents something bold.

 

This poem is a poem about poetry.

Something near and dear to my heart.

I hope that this metapoem helped you appreciate poems,

As an important piece of art.

 

 

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