She was a zealous bookworm, say the piles of books
tumbling off their shelves in the corner.
She was a cluttered girl, say the less than useless trinkets
scattered around the room. And an aspiring artist,
say the countless pencils, pastels, and paintbrushes,
the unfinished pieces stacked on the dusty drawing table.
She was a child of God, says the well-used Bible on the desk.
The house was once white, say the peeling paint chips
fallen in the bushes. The gutters were leaky metal,
say the watermarks on the walls of the flooded basement.
There were aspen trees, tall and leafy,
say the old broken trunks at the front of the house.
She is a child of God, says the well-loved Bible
on the nightstand. And an idealist,
say the hard worked pencils, pastels, and paintbrushes
on the drawing table. The completed artwork,
hanging happily on the walls.
She is a sentimental girl, say the more than useful trinkets
at home in the bookcases.
She is a dedicated book lover, say the contented books
tumbling off the bookshelves in the corner.
The house is going to be white, says the open paint can
in the driveway. And the gutters are shiny metal,
say the unreturned water stains on clean basement walls.
Aspen trees are going to grow,
say the tiny, green-leafed sprouts.
Poetry is such a beautiful and unique form of writing because it is so versatile. It allows the author to tell a story from infinite viewpoints, to paint pictures with emotions instead of brushes, to create awe or love or curiosity or fear or any other feeling, tangible and intangible. At its core it is ultimately limitless, inviting and daring, challenging its writer to test themself and to compose something completely new. When it comes down to it, poetry is the rawest form of prose. True poetry can’t be anything but real.