The prompt was: The Problem with (fill in blank)
The Problem with Poetry
It wants to be.
Just be—
that’s all. To exist
apart from the shivering
cold of rainy spring afternoons
and melancholy silence
that hangs thick as molasses
in the air.
Poetry wants to be held tight
and listened to. To be seen
not just heard.
To lie spread-eagle
on the page; bare,
and hear only the gasp
at its raw form.
Do not argue with poetry.
Not out loud.
Any disagreement should come
as a sweet discourse
within the mind.
Judge not what is said
in those lines before you.
They are for their own part
playing out what latitude
you have allowed them—
and in the end, it is the mind
that is at fault, not the poem.
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