My English teachers were never one for the quiet mysticism
by Meredith Lindsey
of poetry, but my hand has ached to write in measures other than paragraphs
and freer words were never spoken.
I was blessed with the rare power of
truly seeing any sunset, without analyzing
the motives behind it- “beauty is its own excuse for being.”
I must travel through countless volumes of living history-
that's what bare literature is, the breathings and creakings of Earth-
to touch the gentle heartbeat of humanity.
I pray that my poetry will be remembered not for its rhetorical devices-
not poked and prodded by unwilling students-
but remembered for the way it makes me feel.
I am the sole advocate of emotion-
that's where Homo Sapiens lies, beyond
the bare nuances of plot and the eta of the years lies exposition.
Just write, and the world will catch up with you later.