What Is Poetry, Then?

It all starts,
With a once upon a time;
A young scrawny girl,
Composing a childish rhyme; 

With a flourish,
She calls it poetry, her work of art;
With greater joy,
She sets out to start - 

On a journey,
To display her creativity,
To be the center of attention,
To bask in the adulation; 

As she grows older,
Her poetry is now,
An outlet to let out,
Her fears and pain somehow; 

In her adolescent musings,
Live on many a memories -
From the ones who mean a lot,
To the ones who matter not;

As naive as she is,
She also writes about aching hearts,
Broken, battered beyond repair;
She also immortalizes the ones,
Who inflicted so much pain,
And yet will live on, without any care;

As she grows older,
Her poetic style remains the same;
As for everyone else?
This style's nothing but a child's play;

They think words that rhyme,
Isn't a masterpiece;
It's what babies do,
Would you, young lady, grow up, please?

What is poetry, then?
Is it reciting some lines aloud,
In a breathless tone,
Surrounded by an enraptured crowd?

What is poetry, then?
Is it writing broken prose,
Posting it as a caption,
To an aesthetic photograph?

What is poetry, then?
Is it a set of rules, defined eons ago?
Or is it something,
That truly reflects you -
Your personality, your thoughts,
Your heart, your soul?

****

Taken by a true artist, my mother's mother

Stay safe, dear reader. 

Much love, 

Archie <3