What is poetry?

You see,

when I think

of what it could be;

I think of cutting

into the deepest part of me,

and bleeding out

everything that I am.

I am pouring out

every bit of Mel to you,

just so you can see reality

from my point of view.



Now. . .



I'm no Edgar Allen Poe,

but I do kow my way around a pen.

The sin of my imagination

directs me which way to go,

so I'm never really lost.

Thoughts tossed back and forth

like Rikochet from Mucha Lucha.

I will Kamma Sutra your mind

until you find yourself

soaked in intellectual ecstacy.



I am. . .



Gifted with the galaxy's complexity

and a mind with the creator's creativity.

I hold it all in the palm of my hand

while I scribble my thoughts onto the page.

I looked to the heavens for change

and connected the the dots with the stars,

so that I could grasp

and guzzle wisdom from the Big Dipper.

I am the universe personified;

all resides in me

and I reside in all,

so my mental is infinite

when I put my pen to it.