Isn't poetry just so beautiful?

We are the people who find love and God in liars, in skin,
in dirt, in light and
the way it
falls.
We are the ones who see
passion in misery,
poison in majesty,
and mystery in the same
lines and curves we all have
access to.

We press bitter ink and sweet fruit between our fingers
and smear mud on our cheeks,
stained with blood and tears
and juice and warmth
from millions before, after,
and now, oozing
into the crooked paths
of our bare,
peeling,
palms.

We sculpt the beauty in nudity
like The Romans and The Greeks,
and sketch the sky, anatomy, and machines
like the artists and the scientists.
We give breath and we take it,
we wallow in darkness to change it,
we write, cancel, erase to make it.

we notice patterns and predict stakes like we're tycoons in trade,
finance,
and commerce.
We understand like psychiatrists,
we experience hurt to save like warriors,
young soldiers proudly clinging to their mothers'
breast like a newborn babe.
We heal like doctors,
we spread Gospel like saints,
we present
humanity
like
God.

We noticed the cool river flow of sounds
and took the risk to lavishly drink;
to create worlds
out of and for
the one we're in.

We are not just poets,
but we are the poetry
that we struggle to write,
pencil lead chipping and smudging,
though it runs in our veins.


© lilac_of_hope