At first, poetry was the outcome of a story. It couldn't be told. Couldn't be that bold. It couldn't be written. Somewhat forbidden. It needed to be spoken, without giving out valid tokens. Just like 'the heart of the ocean', some things are better left unspoken. Some secrets cannot be revealed. From the lips, nobody can steal. So it gushed forth. Not from tongue and throat. But as ink from fingertips. Of free speech, an eclipse. But when it was done, it became an outlet for fun. Sometimes beautiful things, come by on broken wings. Good, bad? Who knows! But like blood it flows. Access to heart, mind and soul, these unstoppable corpuscles, blended with paralyzed jaw muscles. The first one shocked. Incapable of this concoct. Several times, read and edited. Confused, to whom could this be credited? Uncomfortable with the compliments. Too awesome to bag the accomplishment. Was it some split personality? Came out one evening to be free. Then a good four months, until the second one. And another two, until the third was born too. Slowly, this unfamiliar territory, became more than just a hobby. An extension of personality, more important than reality. Virtual bliss, sealed with a kiss. Everybody is allowed a hobby, without the condescension lobby. Even if it's in isolation, near a wash basin. The words just flow, and come out some more. A mental levitation, sans self-desecration. Like the formation, of a new constitution. The letters transcend. They even defend. And then during the exile, Developed character and style. With more available time, even thinking in rhyme. It attached itself. Now in poetry, forever dwell. What felt like an impossible feat, became a daily treat. Exile not in vain, because through all the pain, it became automatically. flowing unaware, erratically. Poetry is quick; poetry is easy. Suddenly became, all so breezy. Still don't know, if a silent mental undertow, or some divine intervention. It certainly didn't emerge by intention. Above the writer's grade of comprehension. How could this be? Is there another dimension? Way above the grade. Doesn't feel intentional. Baffled the writer, these unusual credentials. Like most others, never read poetry. Except when forced in class, like history. Absolutely no interest. Couldn't care less. Even still, the silent lyrics, almost everything they mimic. One ancient day, found a sibling's love note, a poem to a girl he wrote. Just five lines in school maybe. In those cheesy lines, fascinated greatly. Surely nobody could ever do, rhyming lines like that in overview. Out of this world, those five lines, wow. Didn't ever dream, someday/somehow. No interest, no intention and incapable. No knowledge or talent, but now irreversible. Once mankind got a taste of poetry, noting else satiates better than verbal ambiguity. Even still, lies a need to feel. There must be some relatable appeal. To what is being written, must have been smitten. Since the dawn of poetry, mankind has never been lonely. All praises to this form of art, from the soul, spirit and heart. -RUELHA www.ruelha.com © Copyright Protected. All Rights Reserved.
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