Why

Does poetry

Do this thing?

Each

Line

A divide

That commands you

Makes you

Stop.

Process. 

Chew. 

Taste, savor.

Slow down.

To haaaaaaang

On that precipice

Every new line a cliff

To hang onto for dear life. 

Before dropping to the next. 

Can I make my life a poem? 

Can I be present to each word

Each syllable

Each moment

Every minute

And squeeze it 

Milk it

Bleed it dry? 

I think I just learned something about poetry. It isn’t the poem, it isn’t the words, it is the reader. The reader who chooses to perceive beauty in the poem, in each word, in each line, every stanza. It is the reader who can see the ink on the page as void, empty, lifeless — or, it is the reader who can see infinity, not merely a void, but galaxies sprawled throughout the black — 

I think I just learned something about life. It isn’t the day, it isn’t the people, it is the observer. The observer who chooses to perceive beauty in the mundane, in the chaos, in each interaction, in every blessing-not-blessing. It is the observer who can see it all as empty, without any meaningful order, lifeless, loveless — or, it is the observer who can see the infinite depths, not merely a void but brilliant, luminous galaxies sprawled throughout the black.

what do you see in your daily Rorschach test?