When is a poem not a poem?
When there are no lines that hold a rhyme?
When there is no meter in its time?
When chaos fills the sacred page?
When senseless words are formed in rage?
A foolish question, it surely is,
To inquire as to a poem’s worth.
A poem “is” when it flows from the heart,
Exposing the writer from the start
To slings and arrows launched from those
Who have no role in the player’s part.
What I write is first for me,
To soothe the raging beast within
Or express the joy felt at the dawn
As I pick myself up and venture on
To renewed purpose, or to carry on;
While you, the reader, linger on.
And, as with any form of art,
It’s worth is measured by the heart.
@aefonner This is a wonderful poem! It has an inspiring message that tells us reminds us a poem’s worth is measured by the heart. You make it personal by acknowledging you write for you and show an appreciation for the reader. Great job on this and a pleasure to read! We look forward to reading more.