Poetry should not be hindered by objectivity

The only thing it needs to be

Is a catalyst born from brevity.

/

Poetry is shaking hands and carpal tunnel

It is rhyming schemes and a tattered journal

It is now, tomorrow, yesterday, and maybe later.

/

It comes from the rain, bubbling out,

the laughter from a baby’s mouth.

It changes with the seasons

It grows in both directions

/

Every new passion,

pain,

forges a new page;

A style immortalizing moments in that way.

/

And there when you look is where you’ll always find me.

Compounded in the confines,

the freedom in my poetry.