What is poetry?

CONFESSION/ you move me, muses when I’m lost in the museum of my mind I don’t mind the scrawny sleep after midnight mania manic mad sick or high enlightened inspired, I don’t know I do know that I speak three and a half languages English Greek French Soul you are that language and no I don’t have a dictionary I feel the definitions I bleed the synonyms you are cinnamon mornings when it’s cold outside but sunshine inside honey, you are a fantastic stanza trance I don’t know how I know how to dance because I don’t speak music you are the foetus of my soul, unapologetically polyamorphous you laugh too loud, poetry your smile is too sad and fragile but when I lose your colours my heart stops rhyming and my eyes get brittle I just love the way my bones rattle with impatience and the weightlessness of the right word I might not know what art is but I’m all about heart and the truth is that theories are always thread-thin
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Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

7 thoughts on “What is poetry?”

      1. This is true. You are a superb writer. I know of many superb writers. Your writing demonstrates an expansive, seductive, uninhibited manner of thinking. I can say such a thing about a few other writers.

        But that your words unfailingly resonate with me…I can’t adequately describe how or how deeply. I can’t do that once, much less over and over. Perhaps, too, there is a touch of self-conscious uncertainty. Should your words affect me so? They do – I can’t deny that – but I can’t justify that either…and don’t know if I should. So my lack of words is not an issue of accolades, but rather one of intimacy.

    1. I wish you were in my poetry class. Poetry and the Avant Garde! I am currently in the throws if writing my manifesto. It’s called The Broken Woman Ifestus.

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