Emotions unsorted are ovum aborted.
Words unrecorded are sperms wasted.
Pieces of writing unshared left crumpled
are pieces of us neglected or distorted.
The mind releases its emotional ovum
to meet words’ sperms on ink.
A Fallopian hand etches them
unto a papyrus uterus.
There they grow and divide
into stanza or couplet cells.
They latch and feed
from imagination’s placenta.
Once their gestation is complete
satisfaction’s cervix expels them
as full grown separate manifestations
of their mother and father’s minds.
Passion is words' dedicated mother.
Style is words' proud father.
Poetry grown and born on papyrus
is born twice into creativity’s world.
Once when read by its poet
and again when it kicks its way
down the lips of its readers unto
their hearts, minds, and souls.
Once it is set on paper,
a poem leaves creases
in your conscience,
a taste in the back of your throat
for memories, colors, and emotions.
It bruises your senses with allure,
drains your frustrations with compassion’s
conjure and meaning so dejure.
Like paper, souls can be blank
until life, experience, desire,
loss, death, trial, and truth
fill them up in words and meaning.
We were all born blank
with a chance to be dank and swank.
So let your poems breed content in passion,
and set your dreams free.