I do not know what poetry is or even how to write it. How the lines are supposed to support one another, a house of cards is all I build. Crashing words make no sound at all as they fall to waiting ground. They simply fall forever and are forgotten. It makes me angry and upset as the lines I have written are quickly forgotten.
What is poetry? What is the image that you see, that is poetry to me. Rules from dead fingers mean nothing to me. They are merely suggestions. I break those rules as I break myself to find inspiration. I keep burning my words till I am used to the smell of smoke. Till the sting of syllables in my eyes makes me realize why I cry.
I cry for poetry. I cry for what I do not know.