Poetry does not exist
in nature.
It does not spontaneously
occur amidst
the grasses
caught on the wings
of a gentle summer
breeze.
Life does not flow,
not like poems.
Life james together,
falling as easily
into place as
deformed puzzle pieces,
clashing, and banging,
and awkwardly clinging
to the fabric of its
own existence.
That is not poetry.
That is slamming
a hammer down on
an ancient piano and listening
to the crashing chord
mingle with the splintering wood.
And that is not what I
consider to be poetry.
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