Poetry's Plague

 Writing poetry was more from the heart than anything, I guess it was a mixed feeling that my stomach could not comprehend. Whether or not I believed the words that were transpiring out of my mouth to the pen, I felt as though I could talk through my own thoughts and dream of endless possibilities, but still stuck with the ones I felt comfortable with, but do I need to get out of comfortability? I'm not sure yet. No, that was a lie! I think that I do know what I do want, to create my universe through lines that make no sense to me but also hold such a special meaning I can't seem to let go of them! What we create, they are like the life that we give, but using all of my talents within a teaching curriculum would prove more effective and engaging for students. However, with poems they expand from simple to raw emotions, a never-ending cycle of happiness and sad suffering, but letting go of such expansion would be a waste of your own time and the only thing that you strive to become, a great artist for all to witness. Branding value  within virtue is not an easy task, it takes hard work and dedication, most art is not built in a day, such as buildings, your mental capacity is its own process of narrative. Furthermore, I do believe that poetry is an abstract art of the clouded mind that couldn't think for itself beforehand, why do we even ponder when our hands continue to write what our minds are already thinking? Sometimes the mental domain is so strong, you wouldn’t even know what you conjure up until you look down at the page again, even surprising yourself through sheer unconscious merit.