Poetry is not a piece of dead wood

with black ink put in patterns imprinted on the surface.

It is not a contest to see who is sappier, more passionate,

has more knowledge of difficult words,

not a gray metal table, organized, industrial, empty.

It is a cry,

For home,

For strange adventures.

Not yours,

Not ours.

Mine.

Poetry is a thought with evidence,

A memory to look back on, to reflect.

If it has bad word stuff,

Regardless whether that which encompasses decorous denominations of grapheme,

Or simply a

Word

Poetry is the thought,

Not the paper.