It is the extension of my voice. The silent weep in every agony. The tears that have dried out. It is proof that words hold more meaning than what a dictionary provides. It gives me freedom to present a genuine emotion. It is the joy, the hope that I will be constantly reminded that what I feel should never be taken for granted. That one way or another, it will always hold significance.
Poetry illuminates my dark, terrifying room. It takes away the cluelessness but does not give me an instant concise elucidation of everything. Rather, it helps me gradually see a different view of reality so that my understanding would not be exclusive to myself.
Poetry is the air that I breathe. It is the blood my heart pumps. It is makes sure I am functional. It is the ink of a pen that will always be used for expression and not just for writing. It is a constant reminder that I am alive.
Poetry is an escape, a sudden ecstatic feeling. It is a dog, to whom the frequency my soul’s whistle makes is lone audible. It is the only thing that can contain a consecutive yawp. It bears every noise I emit and consistently responds with a whisper, a mumble that instigates peace in every ambivalence.
Poetry is eternity.
There will be a time when we will face the end, but, poetry will always remain alive.
Written by Valimore Bukghad
for International Poetry Day
21st of March, 2016