They call it poetry,
I say it’s war of words,
birthed out of hate or love,
good or bad,
pain or gain.

They call it poetry,
I call it pebbles,
thrown at emotions,
breaking its grounds,
mending dreams.

They call it Poetry,
I say it’s pain poured out in words,
love spilled on canvas,
agony written on the sand,
hate carved on wood,
hope inscribed on our heart.

Poetry is but a title,
a mere definition,
briefly lettered,
but has healed many,
cured thousands,
risen millions,
spurred billions.

We are all writer,
writing on different things,
at different times,
for different reasons,
yielding different results.

Poetry, a blessing or a curse?