Poetry is Poetry
In the beauty of lines, I found solace— Not deep comfort, Not overflowing joy, But just enough To keep me going. " Poetry is dry ," They say. And yes, I know— Because many don't understand The depth from which these lines call to me. How I’m free to offend English , Yet still stand justified In the court of grammar. Poetic license— My faithful lawyer, Defending me Before an honourable judge Trying to find fault, While Literature itself Stands as my witness. How do I explain That I once said, “He’s beautiful,” Knowing full well “Beautiful” is for the female folk, And what I spoke of Wasn’t human— Nor animate— But inanimate ? Or when I pleaded with the sun To look...