The Truth of Poetry

Some ask what Poetry is
All have different answers
At least one believes that Poetry is this

It is two or more things, really
Like a diamond, it has many facets,
Each offering their own perspective of the world

Is Poetry air?
Is it as necessary as breath,
Needed so life can exist?
Do life and Poetry have a mutual existence,
Intertwined so that if one perishes, the other follows?
Or is it death, preventing life, in that
Some are so devoted and passionate towards it,
There is no time for life to pan out?

Is Poetry rape?
Is it the exploitation of unwilling emotions,
Literature flowing at the cost of one’s own
Sanity?
Or perhaps, it is help for those weary,
A lover pure,
To grant its beloved reader a much-needed release.

Is Poetry coffee?
A nice jolt for the soul,
Rhythmic words to offer a burst of energy;
To lift up one’s day, maybe life.
But, then, could it not be cyanide?
Poison that destroys one’s heart and mind,
Threatening to depress the reader
Into an irreparable state…
The writer, also?

Is Poetry vomit?
An incongruous froth of emotions,
Violently discharged from one’s soul and pen to
Keep peace of mind,
So unchecked emotions do not overcome one?
Possibly, it is food, though;
A thick, steaming stew for one’s heart,
Providing fulfillment of goodness within one.

Most likely, however;
Poetry is at once all and none of these;
A myriad of chaotic, struggling faces
That also lend hands and wills to
Create perfect Balance
Poetry is love, hate, peace, war, joy, anguish,
Fulfillment, starvation, good and monstrous all
At once.
Poetry is both void and all-encompassing,
Thus,
We hate and love poetry, each our own
Types, our own
Emotions.