We Call It PoetryA Poem by RelicAn old one on the observation of poets.Poetry as a haven for the voiceless ![]() With poetry-- A lonely woman can write about her lover on valentine's day. She can describe his most endearing traits line upon line upon line-- as if...he existed. A young girl can share her deepest erotic thoughts, demonstrating an ability to take the reader's hand and guide them with her words, leaving them satiated-- but only if she's skilled enough. For those depressed and those searching to release their pain-- It's a bloodletting. They've been raped, they've been bullied, ignored and even wounded. The dark side held them too long. They need you to listen or simply just notice they're alive. They may wonder if writing is all a fruitless endeavor when their written cries for help go unnoticed. But behind poetry's walls... A man can offer us a character, from a fictitious town that resembles trees, sidewalks, roads and even paths of his own treasured youth. An adolescent can share a broken heart with a seemingly invisible world. He/she can release all the angst, tear by tear, until the poem has ended-- for now. Poetry is a haven for ideas, rants, memories or thoughts that otherwise would go unheard by most. The family simply wouldn't understand. It is a platform for those skilled or unskilled; for those confident and those apprehensive; for those that standout and those whose computer is their only escape. Some here, have painstakingly learned poetry has its elements: meter, rhyme, metaphor, and more. As for others, form, cadence, line breaks... are all unimportant. The prolific and the obscene; those with morals and those without; religious; atheists... they're all involved. People have left poetry for greener pastures, only to re-emerge days, weeks, or even years later when the writer needed another ear to listen to all he/she wanted to say. It is a source of frustration, joy and confusion, all mentioned into one place. It is your yesteryear, your today, and all your tomorrows. It's a percentage of your life, your time and your thoughts. It consists of creation and destruction. It's a statement; it's a confession. It's a voice that understands; It's a disciplinarian that doesn't. It's a welcome sign. It's a keep out sign. It's a microcosm of continents and far off cultures. It's a ghost from the past. It's a community. It's a small town. It's a lyrical lagoon. It's you...it's me...it's us sailing within our own private harbor. And we call it POETRY. © 2026 RelicAuthor's Note
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Added on February 15, 2013Last Updated on January 13, 2026 Previous Versions |


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